We Were Never Forever
by Pennin Ink
Summary: Sherlock gets roped into a favour for Mycroft, busting a smuggling ring moving state secrets out of the country through New York. He never expected he'd be working with the man who broke his heart so long ago: Neal. Sodding. Caffrey.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: Okay, guys, I am COMPLETELY not sure about this. I was just looking for something fluffy and simple to write while struggling with _The Body Farm_ (new chapter in the works) when _this_ popped into my brain and wouldn't go away. I'm really, really outside of my comfort zone with this one, and I honestly don't know if I'm going to take it anywhere. That being said, if you guys like it I will give it my best. As this is a multi-chapter, we will be using the hated bold-text space for the standard warnings, notes and whatnot you need before going into this story.**

**Note the First: Disclaimer: I don't own _Sherlock_ or _White Collar._ You know this already, so let's move on.**

**Note the Second: _Do not read this if you haven't seen _White Collar_. _I guarantee you won't understand about half of it. **

**Note the Third: This is, sort of, a slash story. I'm not a slash writer (go to FanFiction DOT Net user Atlin Merrick for that, she's spectacular), but I am an emotion writer. And a realism writer. That said, there are scenes involving a male/male relationship. They may or may not be explicit, I haven't really decided yet. The M rating is to give me wiggle room, so it could go either way. You've been warned.**

**Note the Fourth: Sherlock may seem a bit OOC to you. That's because I'm characterising him almost entirely off of Benedict Cumberbatch's performance in _The Blind Banker_. If you watch the scenes where Sherlock interacts with Sebastian, you'll see why I wrote Sherlock the way I did. Dude is _hella_ insecure.**

**Note the Fifth: The Language. I am purposely using both American and British writing styles in this. When the setting is England, I'll be writing in British English. When we're in New York, it's American. Sherlock and John's dialogue is always in British English, the American cast is American. My French is rusty at best, corrections and suggestions are welcome, translations will ALWAYS be located at the bottom of the page. I won't be using French very often, but it does make an appearance in chapter two. It may be horrible.**

**That's everything, guys. Like I said, this is hugely experimental and I have no idea where I'm going with it. Tell me what you think, and if you like it I'll do my best to carry on. If you don't, well, shoebox.**

**PI**

* * *

**We Were Never Forever**

**One**

**London: April 14, 2011**

"Bit nippy for April, isn't it?" John commented blandly, struggling to keep up with Sherlock's mile-wide-stride.

"Tedius, John. You're slipping."

John rolled his eyes. Sherlock was in a right strop this morning, his face as warm and affectionate as a thundercloud. "I'm sorry, Sherlock, I'm afraid my best mate repertoire doesn't cover sibling blackmail."

"Really? After a year or more one would think you'd have acquired sufficient experience in the matter."

John shook his head. "Yeah, well, you're usually so good at getting out of it."

"Not this time."

"Why is that, again?"

Sherlock let out a noise halfway between a whimper and a groan. "Don't make me say it, John!"

"Say what? It's not my fault my tiny, feeble brain can't hold vital information for a prolonged length of time."

"I already apologized for that!"

John smirked. "You took the skull out of the bathroom. That's not an apology, that's deflecting."

"But the humidity-"

"Save it, Sherlock. There's only one thing I want to hear from you, and you know exactly what it is." He was all but crowing.

Sherlock grimaced and actually stamped his foot, petulantly. "Must I?"

John nodded. "You must."

Sherlock grumbled and pouted, then gave a resigned sigh. "Mycroft saved my life. I'm in his debt."

"And...?" John needled.

Sherlock deflated. "And...without him I would have lost you. There, I said it, are we done?"

John beamed, wickedly. "Ask me again in four hours."

Sherlock groaned.

::

**New York City: April 15, 2011**

"Again with the fingers!" Neal hissed. Beside him, Peter smirked.

"Better see what they want."

"It's the London thing. Has to be the London thing." Neal commented, striding alongside Peter to the glass-enclosed conference room.

"What have I told you about snooping in my files?" Peter scolded. Neal preened. Peter was so cute when he was all stern.

"I didn't snoop. Elizabeth told me."

"Why would she tell you?" Peter asked, but they had reached the glass door, behind which stood a scowling Hughes.

"I'll tell you later."

They pushed into the room, Peter immediately accepting a cup of imitation coffee from one of the aids and Neal leaning apathetically against the wall. He didn't take off his hat.

"We've just recieved word. They're sending a consultant." Hughes huffed without preamble. Neal perked up. Another consultant?

"Who is, Interpol?" Peter demanded. Diana handed him a file, which he perused absently while sipping his coffee. Neal didn't miss the flicker of a grimace on his face and had to force back a smirk. He'd get Peter converted to genuine, quality coffee yet. Turkish maybe. Or an Italian blend.

Hughes shook his head. "Nope. Apparently this isn't officially an international matter."

Jones snorted. "You're kidding. They're smuggling overseas, how is that not international?"

"British government doesn't want to seek the cooperation of Interpol. Apparently this case has been upgraded, a threat to national security. England wants as few eyes on the evidence as possible. That's why it's down to the task force, and whoever this guy is they're sending."

"Guys." Diana corrected. "There's an invoice here for two first-class seats." She brandished yet another file folder. Neal was beginning to wonder if he could wall-paper Peter's rec room with the things. He probably could. Elizabeth would kill him, though.

"How is it national security?" Peter demanded.

Hughes sighed, weariness evident in every line of his face. "They've uncovered evidence on their side of a deeper operation. Apparently we have reason to believe that British state secrets are being smuggled underneath the artwork and gems. Now, we know they're peddling a fortune in antiquities, diamonds and enough forgeries to make Caffrey blush-"

"Allegedly." Neal interrupted. Hughes ignored him.

"It's not much of a stretch to imagine our own secrets might be making their way overseas as well. But until we have confirmation, we've been requested to refrain from bringing in the DHS. Like I said, minimum personnel only."

"So why us? Or, more specifically, why me? I'm not exactly a secure asset." Neal remarked.

Hughes actually winced. "Our contact with the British government requested your involvement as part of the deal. He says your record speaks for itself, and he hopes that your skills can help bring the investigation to a close as quickly as possible."

Something in the cadence and delivery of that last part sat wrong wtih Neal. It wasn't Hughes talking, it was a quote. A quote with the sort of phrasing and smug arrogance that made something in his shoulders twitch. It was familiar, and terrifying.

"Who's your contact?" He asked, forcing nonchalance into his voice.

Peter tilted his head, thinking out loud. "Mike something. Or maybe Michell. Or Myles. Something with My in it-"

"Mycroft?" Neal asked, too quickly. Dammit. Keep your cool Caffrey.

"That's it." Hughes confirmed, peering intently at the CI. "Mycroft Holmes. You know him?"

Neal gulped. Oh. Oh merciless shit. "We've met." He hedged. "He...doesn't like me much."

Jones snorted. Hughes smirked. Peter just shook his head. "And yet he's requesting you by name."

Neal shrugged. "Mycroft is nothing if not practical." And arrogant. And ruthless. And smug. And cold. And the single most dangerous man Neal had ever encountered, and that had been when the man was just an MP. Last he knew, and he did keep track, Mycroft Holmes was, essentially, the British government itself.

A thought occured to Neal, wriggling at long last past the barriers he'd erected in his head to keep it out. He wouldn't. Mycroft _wouldn't_. The man was cruel and vindictive, yes, but even he wouldn't got _that_ far.

Please?

A wave of panic began to rise in Neal's chest, because he would. He absolutely _would_. It would be fun for him! He'd sit back in his plush, mahogany office and laugh himself sick at the way Neal danced at the end of his puppet strings. It would be the perfect revenge, wouldn't it?

He forced his terror down, locking it away behind a smooth, carefree expression. "So, Peter, what do we got?"

Peter smiled, itching to get into the work. He set down the file Diana had given him and jabbed at the picture clipped to the papers. It showed a lean, handsome man, middle-aged and meticulously dressed.

"We have Desmond Hale, British aristocrat with duel citizenship for the US and the United Kingdom. Lives half the year here in New York, spends the other half in his estate in Kensington. He owns three export companies, all of which have passed every international trade inspection with flying colors. Squeaky clean, according to the paperwork."

"But?" Neal pressed.

"But." Diana chimed in. "Last year one of his accountants went on record with an irregularity in the books. Nothing major, just a few extra crates that weren't on the manifest. It didn't even register as a blip on the radar with any shipping authority, and nothing came of it. Even so, the accountant went missing a week later."

Neal nodded. "Liability."

"We smelled a rat." Hughes continued. "But we could never get Hale on anything. Couldn't connect him to any illegal activity."

"So how do you know he's in with the smuggling ring?" Neal demanded.

Jones scowled. "We didn't. Britain did. Somehow they managed to find documentation that puts Hale in the vicinity of a known smuggling operation, but there's nothing concrete enough to hold him."

Peter picked up the train, piecing together what he did know with what he didn't and finding his conclusion. "So we need to get proof that Hale's involved with the ring, and get evidence of them smuggling state secrets, all without alerting any intelligence organizations or starting an international incident." He shook his head. "Can't be done."

"According to Mr. Holmes, it can." Hughes countered. "If we do everything his consultant says, that is."

"And who is this consultant he's so confident about?" Peter demanded.

But Neal already knew. He could feel it, even before he heard the door opening, even before he caught a glipse out of the corner of his eye of that familiar, brazen stride. He was barely aware of Hughes talking as he turned his body, shifting to see more clearly the long, lithe body, the chaotic black hair, the piercing nickel eyes.

"Says here he's an independant operator, based in London. According to this his name is-"

"Sherlock." Neal breathed, his voice soft and his eyes locked on the man he never thought he'd see again.

::

Hughes, Diana and Jones filed out of the conference room to intercept the Englishman. Neal noticed for the first time that there was another man, short in stature but solidly built, with sandy blond hair just beginning to tinge gray, walking beside Sherlock. That sent something dangerously close to a pang through Neal's chest.

Peter moved to follow his cohorts, but froze when he noticed Neal hadn't moved.

"Neal? What are you waiting for?" He asked.

Neal just shook his head. "I can't, Peter. I can't go out there."

Peter narrowed his eyes and studied Neal in that disconcerting, clinical way of his. "Neal, what's going on?"

Neal swallowed past a lump in his throat. "Did you know that before I moved to New York nine years ago, I lived in England?"

Peter blinked. "Um...yeah, I think I read that somewhere. You never talked about it, so I guess I just, I don't know, dismissed it."

Neal nodded. "For two years. 2000 and 2001."

Peter shrugged. "Okay, so? What does that have to do with this?"

Neal nodded to the pale, elegant man in the bull pen. "Meet the reason why."

Peter's eyes followed Neal's gaze, and he could see the connections forming in the agent's brain. It took all of six seconds for Peter to come to a conclusion, and another four to convince himeself it was, indeed, the right one.

"You- you mean you? And, and him?" Peter stammered. His eyes kept flicking between Neal and Sherlock, who was currently smarming his way through the introductions, the mystery man hovering very, very close to him. Even knowing the Briton as he did, Neal still had a hard time locating the concealed contempt Sherlock was actually feeling.

"The suit is new. And he used to have short hair. I don't know the other guy, Sherlock doesn't exactly make friends easily. But, yeah. That's him. That's the ex I never intended to tell you about."

Peter was shifting uncomfortably, rubbing the back of his neck and huffing into his cheeks. "Oh. Oh, wow. Um...okay. Yeah, that's...that's great. Neal. Um...I, I guess I just never, ahem, pegged you for the-for the..."

Neal smiled crookedly. "I'm not gay, Peter." He said.

Peter looked up at him, still fidgeting nervously. "Oh. Um..."

Neal shook his head. "I mean it. Really. Sherlock was and is the only man I have ever-"

"Yeah, yeah, okay. I mean, I don't have a problem with it or anything. Diana is-"

"A lesbian." Neal finished. "Which is always easier for men to accept than a gay man. But I am _not_ gay. Sherlock is part of my past, when I was still figuring out who I was. I've never been with another man since him, and I'd never been with one before him." He paused, feeling as though he should stand up for his younger self. "But I don't regret him. And I don't deny that part of myself. It took a long time to come to grips with it, but I know who I am and I'm good with it."

Peter nodded, a bit too enthusiastically. "Yeah. Yeah, I get it. Me...me too. Um...two years?"

Neal shrugged. "I was in love. I thought I was, anyway. It didn't end well."

It was only a matter of time, he knew. Not for the first time, he cursed the architect who decided to forgo opaque walls for the conference room. Sherlock's attention was focused on Diana at the moment, but Neal could see his gaze flickering methodically around the room whenever he got the chance. It might take him a moment to add the years, to look past the hat and the suit and see the man he'd once clung to amidst sweat-soaked sheets and cool, shadowy darkness. They'd been barely more than boys then, but the sight of Sherlock brought the memories up to the surface where they danced along Neal's skin. Sherlock's skin. Sherlock's scent. Sherlock's voice...

Sherlock's hate.

It was coming. He couldn't escape it, so he had to face it. Part of him held the faint hope that Sherlock had deleted him after they broke up, but he knew better. Sherlock never deleted his anger. He held it, incorporated it into himself and used its heat to forge a new plate of armor around his heart. Neal had spent months chipping away at that armor, only to re-forge it, stronger than ever in the end.

So he took a deep breath, put his hands casually in his pockets and nudged the door open with his shoulder, striding out to stand at the top of the stairs.

"Sherlock Holmes." He called, and the man's head snapped up, taking Neal in. It all happened in less than a second, the assesment, the recognition, the shock, the pain, the fury and then the pure, blank calm. Neal clutched his hands into fists inside his pockets to keep them from shaking, and forced his voice to come out smooth.

"It's been a while."

::

Dull. Boring. So endlessly _monotonous_. Ooh! That was a good one, he hadn't used that one in a while. He made a note to work it into the conversation next time he was complaining at John. But not now. Now he had to be charming and functional and normal. John had made him promise, and he needed these yanks to work with him if he was going to get this tedius case out of the way and back to England.

He hated New York. It was too bright and too hot and too loud. It tried too hard. Not like London, secure in its own history and import, not bothering with the endless flash.

Well, okay there was the gherkin, but Sherlock chalked that one up to the zeitgeist.

Oh, but he was getting distracted. Not that there was much worth paying attention to, anyway. All of these people were the same. Law-enforcement, noble, dedicated. Thre was one lesbian currently having problems with her long-time girlfriend, and the old man was almost a textbook example of stress-related heart disease, but it was nothing he hadn't seen before.

Even so, something was nagging at the back of his mind. He found himself standing just a little bit closer to John than strictly necessary. He wanted to look around the place, but social nicities forced him to keep his gaze locked on the FBI agents currently invading his personal space. He settled for flicking his eyes around whenever their attention was distracted.

He should have looked at the conference room first. He probably had, and had simply deleted the information instantaneously, in a subconcious act of self-defense. If that was the case, it had certainly backfired, because he had no way to prepare for the sight awaiting him at the top of those stairs.

"Sherlock Holmes." The voice was smooth, cool and more than a little smug. It was almost like Sebastian's greeting at the bank, that Black Lotus case. Only this voice was also fond, and a little apprehensive, and so painfully familiar.

Sherlock jerked his attention to the voice, and the world froze. He could no longer feel the reassuring warmth of John's body close by, or see the painfully polite faces of the agents he would be forced to work with. All he saw were intense blue eyes, a jauntily tilted fedora, an exquisitely fitted suit, slightly more flashy than what he himself wore, and that familiar swoop of artfully mussed hair.

Neal.

Neal. Sodding. _Caffrey_.

In that heartbeat that lasted a lifetime, Sherlock was assaulted by memories, old emotions, ancient hurt. He was going to bloody kill Mycroft! This went so far beyond fair play! He struggled to suppress the sense memories of Neal. Neal smiling at him. Neal painting him. Neal soothing him. Neal inside of him.

Neal leaving him.

But time was about to come crashing back, so Sherlock forced himself into a blank state of calm, at least outwardly. Inwardly, he couldn't shake the phantom sensations of Neal's hands, his lips, his body pressed against Sherlock's own. No! Dammit! That was ten years ago! It was over, beyond over! Neal was nothing to him now. He had the work now, and Neal had never been half so fulfilling.

"It's been a while."

Sherlock forced a professional smile, and slipped his voice into a businesslike cadence.

"Neal Caffrey. I was under the impression you'd been arrested."

Neal smirked, and that too-familiar quirk of his lips sent a bolt of heat straight to Sherlock's groin. He ignored it, and watched clinically as Neal sauntered down the steps like they were connected to the stage of a 1940's night club.

"You were right. I was. I'm out now. I consult for the FBI."

Sherlock took him in, noting absolutely everything. He siezed on the tracking anklet, ready to tear into Neal with his status as a caged bird, but what came out was something altogether different.

"I heard about Kate."

Shit. _Shit_! Why had he said that? How could he say that? He shouldn't even know about Kate.

Neal smiled, a sadder smile than Sherlock could remember ever seeing before. "It's okay. You don't have to pretend you're sorry."

Sherlock shrugged, taking the opportunity to regain his aloof detachment. "I never said I was."

A jab in his ribs. John. Suddenly he was aware of the wide-eyed stares fixed on the pair of them, growing more and more intent as Neal walked closer. He didn't blush, but it was a near thing.

"You look good." Neal offered. Sherlock fought back the urge to sneer.

"Yes, well. I clean up fairly well." The implication was plain, and he knew Neal got it. He was clean. Clean and functional and successful, all without Neal sodding Caffrey's help.

"You do at that." Neal commented, and Sherlock wanted desperately to hate him and his smug, cocky attitude. But it was hard! So hard when Neal's voice was still barely more than a whisper, when his every word sounded like a soft-spoken declaration murmured delicately into the shell of Sherlock's ear. He felt his knees begin to slack as the heat in his belly spread to his limbs, and he struggled to remain upright. It wasn't fair! It was wrong that Neal could still do this to him! He was irrelevant!

At that moment, a man in his mid to late forties, athletically built and looking young for his age (though Sherlock was never fooled), came up behind Neal. He stood close, well within Neal's personal space, what little he had, but carried himself with none of the tension or posessiveness of a lover. There was a ring on his left hand, it gleamed in the lighting and was well worn, hints of milky skin underneath where the sun never touched his finger. Happily married, then. Not Neal's new lover, but definitely a friend. And Neal had always been so _good_ at making friends. He'd gotten Sherlock, after all. He'd gotten all of Sherlock.

The agent beside Neal introduced himself as Peter Burke, and Sherlock was impressed at John's ability not to snort at the name. Within seconds, it became apparent to Sherlock just who this Burke character was.

_Ah_. He thought, directing his mental voice to Neal. _You've got yourself a Watson._

"Sherlock Holmes." He responded taking Burke's hand. "Consulting detective. This is my friend and colleague Dr John Watson." John and Peter exchanged a handshake, and John hesitated a breath before offering the same to Neal.

"Neal, John. John, Neal." Sherlock rattled off dismissively.

"Sorry, you know each other?" John was practically chomping at the bit, Sherlock knew. The doctor would give his eyeteeth to delve into Sherlock's secret and hidden past. Sherlock let his gaze flicker up to Neal, and he forced himself to ignore the surge of heat in his abdomen.

"You could say that." He kept his voice cold. Colder even than when he'd introduced John to Mycroft, and oh, was Mycroft going to regret this "favour" when he got back.

"Oh, Sherlock and I go way back." Neal chirped, crossing his arms over his chest. The flush creeping over Agent Burke's face told Sherlock with a pang of fury that the man knew. Neal had told him. The thought chilled him. Would he tell John? Could he? Oh, God. Would Neal? Right now?

"Ah. An enemy." John supplied. Of course, Sherlock heaved an inward sigh of relief. John knew full well that Sherlock didn't have friends, and since Sherlock had mentioned Neal's arrest...

"Not. Exactly." Neal contradicted. Sherlock wanted to groan. More, he wanted to strangle Neal. Wanted to push him down onto the floor and pound his fists into that gorgeous, careless face until it was a seething mass of bruises and blood.

He didn't. Of course he didn't. Sherlock was a master of self-control when he needed to be. Even so, his whole body went several degrees cooler at John's perplexed, suspicious face.

Peter cleared his throat, clearly uncomfortable. Ah, so the news was recent. Neal hadn't told Peter until after he'd seen Sherlock in the bull pen. He wondered when Neal had become all about full disclosure. Odd for a man who played everything so close to the vest.

"Um, it's nice to meet you both." He was struggling visibly to maintain his professionalism.

Sherlock offered him a carefully crafted smile. "Likewise. If you'll just give me the reports, Dr Watson and I will be on our way. I'd really rather not attend a briefing with jet lag." Preposterous, really. Jet lag was like any other bodily weakness, irrelevant. But John would be grumpy over his, and Sherlock was desperate to get as far away from Neal as possible.

"Of course. Naturally. Um, just follow me." Sherlock did, even though every cell of his body was desperate to hang back, to keep John and Neal separate or at least supervised. But he couldn't, and John was making no move to follow him and Special Agent Burke. At the door to the conference room, Sherlock risked a look back at Neal and John. The former criminal was leaning too close to John, talking softly. John's face was getting redder and more and more astonished. John kept looking up at Sherlock in pure disbelief.

Damn you to hell, Neal Caffrey!

::

Neal tracked Sherlock's departure with his eyes, keeping his face turned toward John Watson. Sherlock was just a bit taller than Neal, so he'd dwarfed the doctor considerably. In Sherlock's absence, John didn't seem nearly as small. In fact, John was an imposing figure, and Neal instantly noted the too-even growth of his hair, the very-nearly Parade Rest of his posture, the automatic alterness with which he took in the subdued chaos of the bull pen, and reached his conclusion.

"So where were you stationed, Doctor?" He asked.

John sighed. "Oh, brilliant. Another one."

Neal laughed, leaning in toward the other man to gauge his reaction. If this was Sherlock's new guy, he should pull away when Neal just barely entered his personal space. John fidgeted, but stayed still. "Sherlock pulled the whole life-story bit, didn't he?"

John nodded. "Less than a minute after we met, actually." He paused, licking his lips unconciously. "Afghanistan."

Neal nodded. "You and Sherlock been together long?"

John rolled his eyes. "No, look, it's not like that. You knew him, you should know he's not...anyway, we're friends. He's not interested in that sort of thing."

Neal forgot himself, and spoke without thinking. "Really? He used to be."

John blinked and snapped his head around to look at Neal squarely. "What?"

Neal panicked a bit. He had to backpedal, and well. "Yeah. I knew him, at Cambridge.I didn't go there but I was dating a student." He said it smoothely, off-hand. John's body language didn't change at all. Perfect. "Sherlock there was something of a hopeless romantic when I knew him. 'Besotted' I think is the word he used."

John's whole body spasmed in shock, and he flushed deeply. His gaze flickered rapidly between Neal and Sherlock. Neal risked a glance at the office and saw Sherlock through the glass, looking back at the two of them with undisguised rage in his eyes. It took everything Neal had not to flinch away. The last time he'd seen that look...but he didn't want to think about that. When he thought of Sherlock, which was more often than he'd admit, he preferred to think about the good times. The early days, when Sherlock had been timidly enraptured by him, when the tingling ache in Neal's heart had convinced him to turn his back on everything he'd known and give the strange young man a chance to ignite his world. And Sherlock had done it, too. With enthusiasm.

Sherlock exchanged a few terse words with Hughes, snatched a handul of file folders in those rediculously long and elegant hands of his, and slammed the glass door open with such force Neal expected it to shatter. He strode stormily down the stairs and over to his companion, glaring black death at Neal the whole way.

"Come on, John. We have work to do." He snarled. He didn't slow his stride in the least as he passed them by. John smiled apologetically at Neal, shrugged and rushed out at Sherlock's heels.

Peter appeared at Neal's side, hands on hips and breathing a disbelieving puff of air. "Well, that was a 180." He commented.

Neal winced. "That was...my fault."

Peter nodded. "Yeah. Yeah. I figured. Exes have a knack for getting under a guy's skin."

Neal shook his head. "I don't...he's different, Peter. That's not the man I knew."

"People change. It happens."

"Yeah...yeah, they do." Somehow, that didn't help.

Peter's hand fell heavy and warm on his shoulder, and he felt a gentle push urging him forward. "Come on. There's nothing more we can do until Holmes is up to date, you and I are going for a drink."

"We are?" Neal cocked an eyebrow.

Peter nodded. "Yep. And you are going to tell me all about you and the Englishman."

"You sure you're up to it?"

"Not remotely. But griping about exes is a time-honored tradition, and it's best done drunk. Let's go."

::

Sherlock was ready to explode. Bloody, _bloody_ Caffrey! No one else, save maybe Mycroft, had such an unerring talent for shattering Sherlock's control. He barely managed to get free of the FBI headquarters before his resolve crumbled and he rounded on John, pinning him against the wall at arm's length. John let it happen, glaring at Sherlock in irritation, his body tensing in such a way as to make it abundantly clear that it was only his patience keeping Sherlock's back off the cement.

"What did he tell you?" Sherlock demanded. "Tell me what he said!" He must've looked like a madman, he knew. A trace of unease crept into John's expressive face.

"What? Nothing! Sherlock, what is this about?"

"You're lying! What did he say about me?" He shoved at John's shoulders, grinding his back against the rough stone facade.

That burst John's thin bubble of patience, and the soldier overwhelmed the doctor in him with a swift, jerking movement that dislodged Sherlock's hands and sent him stumbling back a couple of paces.

"Oi! Back off, Sherlock! It was nothing."

"It's never nothing with him!"

"Yeah, well this time it is."

"I saw your face, John! He told you!"

"Yeah, he told me something. I'm not sure I believe it, but he told me something. It's not like I asked."

Sherlock grimaced and spun on his heel, pacing furiously. "I was young! It was a long time ago, John. I had all these...thoughts. Impulses. I didn't know what I was doing!"

"Relax, Sherlock. I'm not judging you. I don't know why you're upset!"

"Why? _Why_? It's bad enough I'm out of London, working a case for my _brother_, now I find out I have to do it with _him_! How am I supposed to relax, John?"

"Sherlock, calm down! I don't see why it's such a big deal. So he knew you when you were-" John's eyes went wide. Too late, Sherlock realized he'd let his imagination get the better of him. Stupid, _stupid_. He was better than this! He should've thought, observed, taken the time to understand before confronting John. Only Neal could've done this. Only Neal could sabotage his flawless hard drive this way.

John's face grew red, and his mouth went slack. "Oh my God." He breathed. "It can't...there's no way."

Sherlock swore and spun away, biting hard on the knuckle of his right index finger.

"You were...and he..." John stammered.

"Yes?" Sherlock snarled. "Get on with it!"

"He was your..." John swallowed anxiously, and looked up to meet Sherlock's eyes. "_You_?"

"Shut up!" Sherlock snapped. Then he rolled his eyes. "Yes. Fine. Okay? He was my boyfriend. That's what you're getting at. Neal, and I, were together. Dating. Lovers. Whatever the hell you want to call it. Like I told you, I was young. He was...amenable."

To Sherlock's surprise, and horror, John grinned. Then he laughed, a deep, convulsing belly laugh that had him doubled over and clutching his stomach.

"What?" Sherlock demanded through gritted teeth.

"Nothing." John gasped, struggling to breathe. "Just...I was right."

"About what?"

"You remember." John prompted. "Angelo's. 'Not my area'? Remember?"

Oh. Their first night. The taxi driver case. Of course. "You were guessing."

"Yeah, but I guessed right. I should've known when you didn't dismiss it. So?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "So what?"

"So how did it happen? What was he like? How long were you together?" John was prodding, and plainly delighted. For some reason, Sherlock's past was an endless source of fascination for him.

Sherlock clenched his jaw. Best to get it over with, before John sunk his teeth in any deeper. "He was someone Sebastian hated. He was sickeningly charming. Almost two years."

John's eyes nearly bulged out of their sockets. "Two years?"

"Almost."

"Sherlock...that's not dating. That's a relationship."

"I told you he was my boyfriend."

"Yeah, but..."

"But?"

"Well...I pictured something like a month of awkward flirting and clumsy groping, something I don't want to picture very vividly, mind, and then a relieved break-up."

Sherlock felt a stab of injury. "Is that all you think I'm capable of?"

John paled. "I...well...yes." He lowered his head, deferential and ashamed.

"Well, it's not." Sherlock said awkwardly. "I was...we were...I loved him." He hated saying it. He wasn't sure why he'd said it. He just wanted this conversation to be over. "Come on. Let's go to the hotel. I want to read over these and you need to sleep off the jet lag."

In utter silence, John fell into step beside him and they walked away from Neal Caffrey and his FBI friend.


	2. Chapter 2

**We Were Never Forever**

**Two**

**Cambridge: January 19, 2000**

"Oh, good lord he's back." Sebastian sneered, peering out the window of his dorm.

Sherlock looked up from his text book, his and Sebastian's coursework sprawled across his knees and the rumpled duvet. "Who is?" He didn't care, not really, but he had to make a show of being interested in Seb's endless tedium. He needed Seb, much as it pained him to admit. Seb kept the rest of them back.

"The American." Sebastian sneered. "Bloody prat. He pops round sometimes, chats up all the birds and paints things."

"An American? Is he a student?" Sherlock was actually a bit intrigued now. If Sebastian disliked this bloke, he couldn't be all bad.

Seb snorted. "Hardly. One of those spoiled American backpackers. Probably working his way across Europe. Fancies himself an artist I should think. Bloody nuisance. I can't get any play when he's about. Angela's always swooning over him. So's every other girl he talks to."

Sherlock slipped off the bed, gingerly sliding the papers and notebooks off his lap as he did so. He went to stand beside Sebastian and peered out the window. He regretted it instantly.

The boy...the man, was tall and lean, with a faint dusting of stubble on his perfectly sculpted jaw. His clothing was casual, just a pair of light blue jeans and a white cotton polo shirt, but he wore them with the confidence and grace of a male model. His hair was chestnut brown, and swooped over his head in a way that could only be described as stylishly defiant. And his smile...perfect and white and sincere behind those suggestive lips. Sherlock felt something go tight and hot low in his abdomen, and he had to struggle for breath.

"Complete wanker, wouldn't you say?" Seb snarled. "Go on. Tell me what you see."

Sherlock cringed internally. He didn't want to. He hated being treated like some sort of circus act. He licked his lips and focused on the stranger. "He's...early twenties. Not wealthy, but not poor. Comes from..." He strained to see. It was difficult, at this distance and with so much between them. "The midwest. Probably. A city dweller by preference, if not by means. Unemployed but with a steady or at least reliable cash flow." He shook his head. "That's it. I need to be closer to know more." He did, too. Of course, if he really concentrated he'd be able to piece together a larger picture even from here, but he found it was best to keep Seb underestimating him. Safer that way.

Seb rolled his eyes. "Well that's hardly _useful_, Shar." Sherlock winced. He hated that nickname.

"Please don't call me that."

Sebastian only shrugged. "You want a closer look? Fine. Let's go meet the Yank."

The Yank was sitting on a shallow hill, balancing a sketch book on his thighs and smiling winsomely at a pair of women who were tittering at him and fluttering their eyelashes. Sherlock recognised one of them as Debbie, who had sat by him in the Chemistry lab for nearly twenty minutes before fleeing to the front of the room. She saw him coming, rolled her eyes and strode off, tugging her protesting friend along by the elbow. The friend imitated a telephone with her fingers and mouthed 'call me' to the American.

He watched them go, frowning thoughfully, then turned to regard Sherlock and Seb.

"Well. You make an impact." He said, his eyes barely glancing at Seb before settling on Sherlock.

Something in Sherlock's knees went soft and weak, and he worried for the structural integrity of his skeleton. The man's _voice_. So soft, husky yet light. Like a whisper, like a suggestion.

"He does that." Sebastian confirmed, playfully elbowing Sherlock in the ribs. It hurt.

Sherlock tried to force back his blush and ran an uneasy hand through is hair, shorn and limp and always tumbling over his forehead no matter what he did.

"Wilkes, right?" The American asked, his gaze flickering to Seb for less than a second before settling back on Sherlock. It was unnerving, and so, so blue. People had said Sherlock's eyes were piercing, but this man seemed to have irises made of cobalt ice.

"Sebastian, please." Seb smiled his fakest, most patronising smile. "This is my mate, Sherlock Holmes."

The man smiled, his eyes crinkling in mirth, and Sherlock would have been irritated by the reaction to his name if he wasn't so busy trying to keep his heart on the inside of his ribcage. He was too distracted even to panic about his body's sudden and catastrophic betrayal. His mind was clouding, which was so far beyond not good he couldn't even put it into words, and Sherlock knew a lot of words.

"Sherlock, huh?" The man grinned. "Suits you. I'm Neal." He held out a hand, smudged with charcoal but fine-boned and steady. "Neal Caffrey."

Sherlock hesitated, then took the hand. Neal's touch sent a jolt of electricity up his arm, and he barely managed to notice the flicker of surprise that snuck past the American's perfect composure at the same time.

But Seb was looking at him expectantly and Sherlock knew what was expected of him. He didn't want to do it. He desperately didn't want to do it. But he couldn't lose favour with Sebastian, not after last time. So Sherlock _looked_, then he spoke.

"So glad you're feeling better." He remarked, casually. "Hospitals make such inadequate holiday resorts. Especially for three weeks."

Neal blinked, his face going still. Sherlock felt something in his chest drop like a stone.

"How did you know about that?" Neal's voice was even softer, and it sent shivers and tingles along Sherlock's skin. He'd gone with the least inflammatory of his observations, desperately hoping it would placate Seb so he could leave and get his treacherous body back under control.

"Being treated, were you?" Seb's voice was sickly sweet, like oil and treacle. "I should have warned you. Sherlock here knows everything. So, what was it? Syphillis? Ghonorrhea?"

Neal's eyes narrowed. "Exposure, actually. I slipped and fell into the Seine last month." His voice was steady, and his face was calm, but his eyes were burning into Seb with laser intensity. Sherlock looked down at his trainers. He wished idly that he were wearing something smart and stylish, instead of a faded pair of black trousers and a too-large red hooded jumper. The thought surprised him, and he wondered where it came from.

"_Quelle idiot_." He muttered, in spite of himself. Seb jerked his head around to glare at him, and Sherlock flinched back. Seb hated it when Sherlock spoke French. He said it felt like Sherlock was insulting him behind his back to his face. Of course, generally that was exactly what he was doing.

Neal blinked again, but it was a surprised, almost happy gesture. "_Tu parles français_?"

Sherlock snapped his head up. Seb glowered. Sherlock levelled a glare at Neal. "_Oui. Je la parle. Je suis étonné que vous parlez la langue_."

Neal shook his head. "_Je parle un peu. Et pas très bien. Mais pourquois si formal? Tu es un étudient d'université, pas le Premier Minestre_." His tone was light, chiding rather than mocking, but Sherlock glowered and tucked his chin to hide his blush.

"I don't know you." He said in English, his voice a low growl.

"Sorry? Are we speaking like Englishmen again?" Seb snapped. "Because here I was thinking we'd transferred to Lyon without my knowledge."

Sherlock wanted so badly to snap back, to tell Seb exactly what he thought of his "knowledge", but he stayed quiet, and the distaste seethed and roiled in his belly, making him feel sick.

"You know, Wilkes," Neal began, and Sherlock jerked his head up to look at the man, his eyes pleading for silence. Neal either didn't notice, or didn't heed. "You'd be surprised what a little linguistic training will get you. I mean, I doubt I'd've been able to convince Angela to pose for me in the nude if I hadn't asked in French the third time."

Seb went purple with rage, and Sherlock had to force back laughter. Seb raised his fist as though to punch Caffrey, who just sat there and smiled. Seb, predictably, lost his nerve and snarled. "You have no place here, Yank!" He faced Sherlock and jerked his head. "Come on, Holmes! We're leaving."

"You can leave." Neal remarked, "But your friend is welcome to stay. I could always use a good eye."

Sherlock froze. Neal...wanted him to stay? Neal actually _wanted _Sherlock around? Maybe it was because he'd barely spoken, except that French interlude. Maybe he was just doing it to irritate Seb. But Neal's smile was genuine, or looked it, and his eyes sparkled with mischief and mirth. And Sherlock wanted to stay. He wanted to breathe in the scent of charcoal and oil paint and skin. But he couldn't defy Seb. He couldn't. He looked helplessly between the two of them, torn between desire and self-preservation.

"Please. Nobody gets bored qicker than Shar, here." Sherlock winced, and Neal saw it. "You wouldn't stand five minutes with this freak."

Neal's eyes narrowed, and his expression became sharp. "Where I come from, we're all about the freaks. Why don't you run along and simper to your _bird_. Sherlock can stay if he wants."

"He doesn't want to stay! He's coming with me!"

It was surreal. They were fighting over him, over _keeping _him. Of course, he knew Seb just wanted to reinforce his claim on Sherlock's desperation and loyalty, but what was Caffrey's game?

"Sherlock?" Neal's voice was somehow hard now, while still light and breathy. "Do you want to go with him?"

No. No he didn't. He said nothing, just looked at his shoes.

"Do you want to stay with me?" And the voice was gentle. It slipped under Sherlock's skin and coiled in his chest, warm and soft and beckoning. He didn't realize he was nodding until it was too late.

Sebastian scoffed, outraged, and spun on his heel, storming off.

"Seb, wait!" Sherlock called. He should follow, he knew. He should run after Seb and beg for forgiveness and perform his stupid tricks until all was forgotten. But he couldn't do it. He'd pay for it, later. He always did. But he just couldn't force himself to play the subordinate a second longer. Bowing and scraping for Seb chafed against his nature, rubbed him raw and drove him mad. Whatever pain or humiliation the others inflicted couldn't possibly be any worse than this demeaning, agonizing act he was forced to put on.

He watched Seb disappear into the distance, ducking into the formal hall. Once he was gone, Sherlock groaned and flopped onto his back on the grass, pressing his hands to his face. "Fuck!"

Neal chuckled beside him. "What a prick." He commented. Sherlock groaned again.

"Why did I do that? I'm going mental, I must be!" He moaned from behind his hands. His voice came out muffled.

"Why the hell do you hang out with that guy? He's a complete...what do you guys say? Git?"

Sherlock nodded. "He's a git, a prat, a wanker and a _fucking imbecile to boot_!" He shouted that last bit in the direction of Seb's retreat, lowering his hands and lifting his head to do so.

Neal blinked in surprise, then smiled. It was a bright, sunny smile, and Sherlock half expected the clouds to part so the sky could match him.

"Then why do you hang out with him?" Neal prompted again.

Sherlock let his head fall back with a huff. He held up a hand and counted off with his fingers. "Because he's popular, wealthy, connected and attractive to the opposite sex." He recited, a litany he'd long since memorized.

"Uh-huh." Neal replied. "And?"

Sherlock sighed, tracing patterns in the clouds with his eyes. Hm. A fractal, or nearly one. "Because they respect him more than they hate me."

"Ohh." Neal breathed, and the sound tickled in Sherlock's chest. "I get it. An alliance."

Sherlock smirked. "More a protectorate. As long as Seb is happy with me, the rugby arseholes and their ilk leave me be. If Seb is unhappy with me, I get my head kicked in."

Neal looked pained. "And...I just made him unhappy with you."

"No, I did. I should've gone with him."

"I pressured you."

"I don't give in to pressure. Seb is a strategic manoeuvre. I don't have the time or the energy to deal with the idiot masses, and recovery gets in the way of work."

"That's a load of bull." Neal remarked.

Sherlock groaned again and slammed his fist against the ground. "You're right, it is!"

"Well at least you're self-aware."

"And self-centred, self-satisfied and self-appointed master of logical reasoning." Sherlock pointed out.

Neal smirked and breathed a small laugh. It made the corners of Sherlock's mouth twitch up, and before he knew it he was smiling. Actually smiling. He'd almost forgotten how to do that.

"That hospital thing. Seb made you do that, didn't he?" Neal asked. Sherlock nodded.

"I'm sorry." He tried very hard to mean it.

"How did you know?"

Sherlock shook his head. "It's just something I do. I observe, and I use what I notice to construct a factual representation of my subject. It's not difficult. Well...not if you put in the work."

"Work such as?"

Sherlock smirked. "Such as observing the rate at which a natural tan fades under flourescent lighting, or distinguishing the marks left by an IV from the track marks of recreational drugs users, or experimenting with malnutrition to observe the effects of rapid weight loss on the sagginess of skin."

Neal was staring at him. "You...you studied all that?"

"What I couldn't look up I tested on myself."

"You...starved yourself for science?"

Sherlock shrugged. "It wasn't difficult. I seldom eat anyway."

"You are...completely insane." Neal chuckled.

Sherlock turned his head to fix his most piercing stare on Neal. "And you're a con artist. Shall we continue stating the obvious or can we move on?"

Neal froze, then very slowly blinked his eyes. "You made me." It wasn't a question.

"The moment I saw your shoes."

"Why didn't you say anything?"

Sherlock arched his back up from the grass slightly, feeling the vertebrae pop and shift pleasantly, and let out a sigh. "Because you speak French, terribly. Because you pissed off Seb, brilliantly. Because you're interesting and..." he trailed off, he could feel the _devestatingly gorgeous_ dancing on the tip of his tongue but he forced it back. "If I were going to expose you for what you are, I wouldn't do it for Sebastian Wilkes."

Neal smiled, a crooked, inviting smile that sent ice and fire through Sherlock's blood. "And who would you do it for?"

"It depends." Sherlock struggled desperately to keep his voice impassive.

"On what?"

"On what I'd get out of it. I don't offer up information for nothing." He idly examined his finger nails. "So what's the con?"

Neal breathed out a huff of laughter. "No con. I'm just travelling. I really am an artist. I do jobs when I need the cash, but right now I'm just honing my skill."

"Whose art?"

Neal grinned. "Oh, you're good. I favor the renaissance masters, but there are a few contemporaries I can sink my teeth into. I've been going through a Van Gogh phase lately." He pronounced it "Van Go", and Sherlock snorted.

"Ha, ha. Yes, Americans talk funny, I get it."

"You do, you know." Sherlock said cheekily.

"Look who's talking 'gov'ner'." Neal sniped.

"Oi!" Sherlock protested, slapping Neal's arm half-heartedly. It was a word he'd never used after the age of nine, and he could scarcely believe he'd used it now. With a sudden, tiny tremor of revulsion, he realized he was _flirting _with Neal.

"Exibit A!" Neal called, making a show of holding out his arms demonstrably and swiveling his torso to address the campus at large, pointing theatrically at Sherlock. "Everyone! Exibit A, right here!"

"Stop it!" Sherlock hissed through a pitifully suppressed giggle. Oh, God he was actually _giggling_.

Neal lowered his arms and his voice, grinning at Sherlock with hooded eyes. "I rest my case."

Sherlock's whole body siezed. Was he-? Oh dear God. Neal was_ flirting back_! His skin felt like it was on fire, his internal organs trembled and contracted, his mouth went dry, and his every cell screamed with the desire to throw himself on top of Neal. To taste and smell and _feel_. To bite and suck and lick his way across every glorious, honey-coloured inch of him. He couldn't breathe. He couldn't see properly. But his mind was racing, outstripping even his thundering heart. He was assaulted, not by data, but by fantasies of Neal, naked and glowing and hot under his hands, his mouth, his hips. Neal, groaning and gasping and reaching out to touch, to fondle, to caress Sherlock into madness.

And hard on the heels of arousal was panic. He felt himself stirring, growing hard under the heat of Neal's dazzling smile. His trousers seemed to be growing tighter, and he knew he didn't have long before the problem became noticable. Unmistakable. Cold, sharp terror slammed into him, and he scrambled to his feet.

"I have to go." He said much too quickly, his voice tight and fumbling. "There's a...I have to...a thing. Forgot. Good to meet you." And with that he was off, walking away so quickly he was nearly running, his feet automatically steering him toward the safety and sanity of the chemistry lab. He tried to convince himself he hadn't heard Neal's strained cries of "Sherlock! Wait!" But he was never very good at lying to himself.

Once safe inside the lab, surrounded by the sharp tang of chemicals and the gentle hum of computers and equipment, he leaned his back against the wall and took a moment to breathe. His body was hyper-aware of every sensation, his senses all on high-alert, and his heart was still hammering behind his ribs.

He closed his eyes, tilted his head back, and prayed to a nonexistant god that he'd never see Neal Caffrey again.

* * *

_Quelle idiot: _What an idiot. (May mean Sherlock, may mean Neal. Probably meant Neal.)

_Tu parles français_?: You speak French? (Informal, Neal is being very modern and casual calling Sherlock "tu".)

_Oui. Je la parle. Je suis étonné que vous parlez la langue_.: Yes. I speak it. I'm surprised you speak the language. (Formal. Sherlock is adhereing rigidly to propriety, calling Neal "vous".)

_Je parle un peu. Et pas très bien. Mais pourquois si formal? Tu es un étudient d'université, pas le Premier Minestre_.: I speak a little. And not very well. But why so formal? You're a university student, not the Prime Minister. (Neal speaks a sort of bastardised French known as "Franglais". Basically, he's speaking French words but with English inflection and phrasing. I do this, because I haven't studied French in several years, and it's way too easy to just translate directly. This is very. Bad. French. Think "spanglish" or "engrish". I don't think it's too noticable here, but trust me when I say Neal sucks at French in 2000.)


	3. Chapter 3

**We Were Never Forever**

**Three**

**New York City: April 16-17, 2011**

Neal set down his scotch, grimacing theatrically at the burn coarsing down his throat. Peter smirked at him from across the table. They were sitting in Neal's apartment, having fended off June's persistant offers of anything from cookies to baked alaska.

"So what happened? After the Wilkes creep?" Peter asked, gesturing loosely with his own scotch, which dangled precariously from his fingertips.

Neal shrugged. "I couldn't get him out of my head. It was like...like someone had put a storm inside a wine bottle. You couldn't really see it through the dark glass, but every now and then there was a flash of lightning and you could see...everything."

Peter frowned, setting down his glass. "How do you mean?"

Neal pressed his lips together into a tight line. "Back then, when I first met him, Sherlock was outwardly the most subordinate, introverted person you've ever met. But _inside_...he was a force of nature. God, his head was so full of...everything. It scared me, sometimes, when he'd let the mask fall and show me who he really was. He's a genius, Peter. And I'm not just flattering him the way people flatter me. Yes, I'm talented. Yes, I have impressive skills, savant even, but Sherlock is legitimately a genius. Certified and everything. And you have no idea how _terrifying_ genius can be until you've felt it up close. His mind never stops. Never. He knew I was a con artist by my shoes. He knew I'd been laid up in a French hospital for three weeks by my fading tan and the looseness of my skin." Neal sighed. "And he knew all of that because he worked at it. Constantly. The Work." He tasted residual bitterness at the capital letter. "It was everything to him, even then. It meant a lot more to him than I did."

"Is that why it ended?" Peter asked, his face intent and sincere.

Neal shook his head. "No. That's why it should have ended a long time before it did."

* * *

John woke in the early hours of morning the next day, stumbling blearily into the lounge of their shared suite and making his unsteady way to the sofa, where Sherlock was sat, hunched over the files from the FBI. John slumped onto the sofa, and Sherlock obligingly shuffled over to give him more room.

John's hand fell, warm and heavy on Sherlock's back, and began to rub over his shirt. Sherlock flinched.

"Explain." He demanded.

John yawned. "I'm comforting you. Entirely for my benefit, I assure you. Now please refrain from being a git until I've had at least three cups of coffee."

Sherlock smiled. He couldn't help it. He never could, with John. "Thank you."

John nodded and staggered to his feet. "Bloody jet lag. Have you slept?" He didn't so much as glance at Sherlock as he made his unsteady way to the kitchenette and the coffee maker. Apparently, crossing the Atlantic made John inclined to deny his basic tea-nature.

"I dozed a bit. You know I prefer not to sleep when I'm working."

"I know, but you have just flown across an ocean and five time zones. Aren't you a bit knackered?"

Sherlock shrugged. "Pointless."

"Yeah, right." There was a dribbling sound, and Sherlock glanced up to see John staring fixedly at the coffee pot, willing it to fill faster. "You want any?"

"Black. Two sugars." Sherlock replied, already moving his gaze back down to the files.

"Yes, I know." A soft sussurus as John ruffled a hand through his short hair. Sherlock braced himself for the inevitable. It came.

"Are you going to be okay?"

"Isn't it too early for this bit?" Sherlock demanded.

"Not for you." Sherlock could _hear_ the careless shrug in John's voice. "And apparently not for me, today. So are you?"

Sherlock frowned, fixing his eyes to the papers and photographs in his hand. "Yes, John. Really, by now you should be painfully aware of my innate ability to compartmentalise my emotions from my thoughts."

"Didn't look like that yesterday afternoon." John commented.

Sherlock hunched his shoulders, irritably. "I was caught off-guard. I never imagined Mycroft would stoop so low as to force me into working with _him_. I should have known better. New York, white collar crime. Had to have Neal in it somewhere."

"Yes, about that. You said he was arrested. What for?"

"Forgery. He's something of a talent. They got him on some fake bearer-bonds, I'm told. Took about three years to do it, too."

"So he was...doing that when you met?"

"Yep. I dated a criminal. Please save your quips for after sunrise, John. I'd be most appreciative."

"Deal. But after that, I reserve the right to call you predictable and clichée to my heart's content."

"Deal. Now help me figure out what these FBI idiots missed so we know where to start looking."

::

* * *

Sherlock swanned into the office. There was really no other word for it. His face was fixed in a devil's grin, and Dr. Watson was all but trembling with contained excitement, walking in-step with Sherlock. The two cut a striking figure, striding purposefully side-by-side, and Neal felt a prickle of intrigue at this small, unassuming man who refused to walk a step behind. How had Sherlock managed to find an equal?

"Think he found something?" Peter quipped. Diana smiled and Jones huffed a suppressed chuckle.

"He's going to be hell to work with, isn't he?" Jones ventured.

Neal shook his head, a ghost of a smile tugging at his lips. "You have no idea."

At that moment, Sherlock swept into the conference room and dropped the file dramatically onto the table. "The Cyprus Hotel, Thursday at four."

"The Cyprus- sorry, what?" Peter's face and voice held all the halmarks of someone unexpectedly finding themselves reeling in the wake of Hurricane Sherlock.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, and was about to speak when John Watson purposefully cleared his throat. Sherlock glanced over at him, ran his eyes up and down Watson's face, then deflated a bit. Neal was staggered. Sherlock Holmes...deferring to someone? And it was genuine, not that fake submission he'd affected for Sebastian's benefit a decade ago. Sherlock actually respected and yielded to this man. It was...impossible.

"That's where Hale will next meet with his British contacts. It's all in the file."

"Wait, what?" Jones demanded. "I've read that file eleven times over the last week and I never saw anything like an itinerary."

Sherlock let out a theatrical whimper and rolled his eyes. "Oh, naturally. Eleven? Well, I suppose we should at least be grateful you have the ability to read, I really had doubted."

"_Sherlock_." Watson's voice wasn't even remotely loud, but it was even and dripping with subtle menace. Sherlock gritted his teeth and grimaced like a child about to throw a tantrum.

"My apologies Agent Jones." He said with the fakest smile Neal had ever seen. Sherlock glanced back at John, who gave a brief nod, then returned his attention to the agents.

"It's all there if you care to look. It's in the reciepts."

"Reciepts?" Neal asked, before he could stop himself. Sherlock's head jerked toward him and the gaze he fixed on Neal was brimming with barely contained fury, but his voice was perfectly calm.

"Reciepts, yes. You pulled his credit history, but seem to have neglected to notice his regular charges at various public venues, all approximating $5,000 with a margin of no more than $300 variation. A fairly regular sum to be spending, considering how erratic his other purchases tend to be. Also a bit on the low side, Mr Hale seems to favour expense over practicality, does anyone really _need_ a diamond-encrusted candle snuffer?"

"They make those?" John mused. Rather than a biting retort, Sherlock flashed John a tight-lipped smile, his eyes dancing. Who _was_ this man?

"We saw that." Peter pointed out. "We know those are his meetings, but the venue is never the same and neither is the day. There's no pattern!"

Sherlock blinked at Peter, utterly confounded. "No- no pattern? You _are_ special agents for the Federal Bureau of Investigation, aren't you? Have I wandered into the wrong room? Is, is this an elaborate prank set up by my brother, I really wouldn't put it past him."

"_Sherlock_. Get on with it." John's voice was an outright growl this time and Sherlock cast him a withering glare. John practically preened under it.

"Fine!" Sherlock snarled. "There _is_ a pattern. A very ostentatious one at that." He slipped a map of the city out of the file folder, one that hadn't been in there previously, and unfolded it. There were a number of markings and calculations on the paper, including a line drawing connecting the points of Hale's contact meetings.

"The addresses. The last number on each of them is a sequential digit of pi. Obvious, childish. They're all high-class establishments, flashy and expensive, exclusive enough to ensure an acceptable level of privacy. And, once you have pi to start from the length of time between meetings makes sense. Absurdly simple, really. Pi to locate the spot, phi to determine the date."

"You're kidding." Neal smirked. "But that's..."

"What?" Sherlock demanded, rounding on him. Neal had to quell the urge to take a step back. Sherlock's eyes were boring into him. It was a single-minded intensity he hadn't felt for ten years, and in an instant he was back there, his throat sore from screaming, his anger ebbing away, leaving genuine fear in its wake.

"Arrogant. Megalomaniacal. Obvious. Perfect for Hale."

Sherlock smiled his predator's smile, and something tightened in Neal's belly. "Occam's razor, wouldn't you say?"

Neal couldn't help but nod. Oh, God. He'd forgotten. Forgotten just how _intoxicating_ Sherlock could be. "We need to get in with Hale by Thursday. Get someone on the inside." Neal knew his voice was coming out breathier than usual, but it was difficult to care when Sherlock was standing _so close_, Neal could feel each exhale against his cheeks. It would be so easy to just lean forward and-

"So!" Peter's voice cut through the moment of insanity, and both Neal and Sherlock came to their senses and jerked away. "We get Neal to schmooze his way into Hale's good graces, he gets into Hale's files, we get our proof and everyone goes home happy."

"Not that easy." Sherlock retorted. "Hale's careful. It'd take years for anyone to win his trust enough that he'd let them into his records unsupervised. We'll have to be a bit sneakier about this."

Neal felt an angry flush rise in his cheeks. "You want to use me as a distraction?" He demanded.

Sherlock blinked innocently. "Well that is your forte, isn't it?"

"Oh that's rich, Sherlock, you know I seem to recall _you_ were the one constantly tying up my cell phone-" but Peter cut him off.

"That's enough!" He shouted. A quick survey of the room showed Diana and Jones looking astonished and disbelieving, Watson perfectly and worryingly impassive and still, and Peter almost shaking with fury. When next he spoke, the agent's voice was deadly calm. "I know you two have a history. I appreciate that. But you _cannot_ let your personal issues interfere with this investigation. So man up, put whatever went on between you aside, and do the work!"

"That's _your_ forte, right Sherlock?" Watson's voice was very, very mild. It made Neal's blood run a little cold.

Sherlock glanced back at John, then at Neal, his eyes cold and intense. "Right." His eyes were still on Neal, but his words were directed at the doctor. "You're absolutely right, John. Thank you."

The plan was made, and Sherlock was gone. Neal didn't know what to feel about that. He settled for a dull, twisting ache somewhere below his belly.

::

* * *

Cambridge: January 20, 2000

"So. Chemistry." The voice was sudden, unexpected, and it made Sherlock fumble with his graduated cylinder so that it clattered against the work top, sloshing acetone all over a sheet of notes.

"Fuck!" Sherlock hissed, scrabbling for the spill kit behind him. Neal chuckled and sauntered closer.

"Nothing too dangerous I hope." He said flippantly as Sherlock finished mopping up his notes. Irritably, he snapped off his gloves and jerked the goggles off of his head.

"What are you doing here?" He demanded.

Neal shrugged, his every movement so perfectly casual and nonchalant. "I've been thinking about you." He said cooly.

Sherlock's throat siezed up, and it took every ounce of self control to keep his body from trembling. Damn hormones! "About me. How unfortunate for you."

A lazy, inviting smile and Sherlock's knees seemed suddenly insufficient to hold him up. "You're too modest, Holmes."

"Sherlock." He corrected. Then he wondered why. "And I'm not. At all. I just pretend to be."

"I know. Wanna know what else I know?"

"Oh, God, you're going to tell me anyway."

Neal completed his advance, bracing his arms against the table and leaning toward Sherlock with a conspiratorial smirk on his (_lush, kissable, oh shut up!_) lips.

"I know...you've got a big brother who scares everyone. And I know you're a science student, focusing on chemistry and anatomy and about two dozen other things. I know you spend nearly all your spare time in this lab. I know that everyone on this campus who's ever met you hates your guts, and even some people who've only ever heard of you." His smile widened, and Sherlock's body was caught between ice cold dread and burning hot desire. "And I know you're hands down the smartest human being to ever attend this school." He winked, and Sherlock's brain shut down in certain places, places he generally tried to ingore but found he missed once they were off line. "Because your brother went to Oxford."

"Why are you here?" Sherlock's voice came out small and strained, cracking like it had when he'd gone through puberty. Bloody hell!

Neal grinned. "I told you. I've been thinking about you. And asking about you. And if you're so..._obscenely_ brilliant, I'll bet you'd be able to help me out with a little project I'm working on."

"A con." Sherlock said sharply.

Neal shook his head. "Guilty. But it's a good one. And it's targeting my neck of the woods. No one in Britain will be affected."

"Except me."

Another smirk, and Sherlock couldn't breathe. "Well, maybe. It's nothing major, I just need a few inks. Special inks. Inks I suspect you can cook up."

Sherlock shook his head. "Not my thing."

"Oh, come on, Shar! It's all chemistry!"

"DON'T CALL ME THAT!" Sherlock surprised himself at the vehemance of his reaction. Neal jerked back, startled and probably scared out of his wits. Perfect. Fuck.

Neal blinked, and his smooth facade faded gently from his face. "You really hate it, don't you?"

Sherlock didn't look at him, focussing instead on his sodden notes, blinking back treacherous tears that _would not be allowed to fall_.

"The way they treat you. It gets to you."

"Stop it."

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to upset you."

"You knew. You _saw_ my reaction when Seb called me that name."

"Well, yeah, but I figured you didn't like it said in public. I didn't realize you hated it so much."

"Well I do. He treats me like his pet, and it would be _so_ easy to tear him apart whenever I wished. But I can't, and he knows it." He was babbling, he knew, pouring out his frustrations and secrets to a perfect (gorgeous) stranger but he couldn't help it. He'd been forcing it all back for so long, it was much too cathardic to finally let it out.

And there was a hand on his shoulder, warm and strong, and it _burned_ through his shirt in the best way possible. He wanted to lean into that touch, he wanted to press his body against Neal, to smell him and savour him and _taste_ him. He kept still.

"Make my inks." Neal's voice was low and seductive, sending tremors through Sherlock's body that the American _had_ to be able to feel. "And I'll destroy him for you. I'll get all of those jerks to leave you alone. You can work in peace, no distractions, no recovery time. Just working."

Sherlock let himself look at Neal. The man was painfully close, their faces so near that they were breathing the same air. It would take less than three centimetres and their noses would be touching. "You can do that?"

Another smile, softer this time, gentle. "Oh yeah. Trust me."

"How?"

The gentle, coaxing smile turned into Neal's by now trademark smirk. "Funny thing about campus jerks." He said. "They almost invariably have girlfriends. And girls?" He raised his eyebrows. "Sort of my area. University girls...now that's just child's play."

Something cold and stinging flooded Sherlock's gut. "Oh. Oh s-so you've, um...you've got one. A...a girlfriend."

Neal shook his head. "Nah. I prefer not to be tied down. And I'm a hopeless romantic at heart. I'm waiting for Miss Right."

Sherlock suddenly found the floor _intensely_ interesting. Far more interesting than Neal's eyes or that dismissive quirk in his lips. Yep. Far more interesting. "Oh." And the hand was gone, and Neal was meandering away. He didn't leave, though. Instead he started wandering around the work tables, picking up this and that, examining the detritus of Sherlock's safehaven with an absentminded interest.

"So what'll it be?" Neal asked, his voice slightly raised to carry the distance. "Will you mix for me?"

Sherlock sighed. "Aiding and abetting is still a crime you know."

Neal snorted. "Good thing I never get caught. So?"

He felt a smile tug at his mouth, and he gave up trying to fight it. "Okay, fine. As long as you keep up your end."

:

* * *

:

Oh, this was stupid. And weird. And...what was he _doing_? He could think of five different sources off the top of his head where he could get the inks he needed. Why was he dragging an innocent student into this? Neal ran over and over the chemistry lab encounter as he walked the mile and a half to his flat.

_Because his eyes can't decide if they want to be stormclouds or seafoam_. He thought, indulging in a bit of poetry. Then he realized what he'd just thought and shook it off. No, Neal! Get your head together! Sure, Sherlock was interesting, fascinating even, but he was also a _man_, and Neal was intensely secure in his heterosexuality.

Of course, that didn't really explain why he'd been so blatantly putting the moves on Sherlock in the chem lab. Why had he done that? To get help he didn't need for a job he could do in his sleep? Those bonds were already works of art and he'd barely begun them. Within a month he would be in New York, living like a king in Manhattan, conning the glitterati out of their shining excess. Well, okay maybe not to that extent. He'd probably get his foot in the door with some street hustles, a bit of sleight-of-hand. He'd have the bonds to fund his living arrangements in the interim, just until he found a fish big enough to be worth landing. And then? Oh...endlessness.

One month. He would stay in England until the end of February, then he'd be gone. Bonds in hand, the US at his feet, and a tall, slender, mercury-eyed adonis at his back.

Neal froze. Why? Why did the thought of leaving Sherlock behind make his stomach clench? Why did the idea of losing those shining, fathomless eyes made his head swim? Neal was not a foolish man. Nor was he an ignorant one. He'd been to five continents in his desceptively short life, and he'd known and loved women in all of them. He knew this feeling, low in his body, this coiling, liquid heat. He'd felt it innumerable times, always in response to curvy hips, lusciously long hair, sinful legs and tantilising breasts. What he didn't know was how to process the fact that he was now feeling it for broad shoulders, a tapered waist, large, elegant hands and those _eyes_. Those impossible _cheekbones_. And dear, merciless God that _voice_.

Years later, Neal would look back on the elation and the destruction of his life with Sherlock Holmes and he'd blame it on that soul-searing voice. He'd never heard anything so deep, so melodious. It was a voice _designed_ for Keats, for Shakespeare, and for Edgar Allen Poe. It could be menacing, seductive, dismissive, and always, _always_ imperious. Even when Sherlock had been kowtowing to that Sebastian bastard, even when he'd gone quiet and broken in the chem lab, there had been an air of majesty to that voice. That voice had a hard-line to Neal's loins. And it felt good.

Could he do it? Could he leave this place? Live without that voice? Of course he could! He hardly knew the guy, and best not forget, Sherlock was a guy. Hard lines and hard muscle, flat and sturdy. Neal knew his tastes. He went for slender but curvaceous, round faces and pouty lips, soft eyes and long, straight hair. Sherlock...Sherlock was none of that. He was slim, verging on skinny, almost unhealthily. He had short, curly hair (_invitingly soft, tangled fingers, soft gasps, no!_), full lips that were _anything_ but pouty, and those eyes were the farthest thing from soft Neal could imagine. Those eyes could run a man through, pierce his skin and plunge into his soul, slicing with all the precision of a scalpel. They were cold, dangerous eyes. And they made Neal's body _burn_.

Okay. Okay. Think. Feel. Intuition, Neal, you can do this. Just...let it go.

Neal had been called hedonistic. It was one of the nicer labels he'd been given in his life. But, in truth, Neal was nothing of the kind. He knew what he wanted, and he saw no point in denying himself the attainable. He wanted, and he could be honest with himself, wanted Sherlock Holmes. His body wanted him, his mind wanted him, and if the excelerated pounding was to be believed, his heart wanted him as well. Sherlock did things to him, things he enjoyed. He'd be an idiot to deny them.

Okay, so he wanted Sherlock. And he needed stability, someone who could help him with the more exacting sciences of forgery. And he needed friends in England, rather than just his aquaintances, who always charged more for foreigners. And he needed a warm body beside his at night...well, okay, maybe he didn't _need_ that, but sex stimulated his creative processes, and proximity to a lover was a potent muse. He did his best work while sated. And while hungry. He could already feel the hunger waking inside him, the hunger to touch, to claim, to explore another person's body until he knew it better than his own. And he would be good for Sherlock, he figured. Sherlock seemed surrounded by nothing but antagonism and resentment. Neal doubted the student had experienced any kind of tenderness or affection since leaving home. Maybe even before then.

Neal knew himself to be a tender and generous lover. He delighted in the undoing of his partners, in watching as they fell to pieces at his touch. He found satisfaction in coaxing out their pleasure, their need. Sherlock needed, of that Neal had no doubt. And he could provide.

That settled it, then. For good or ill, Neal would set his sights on Sherlock Holmes. A man. A young, lithe, beautiful man with a voice made of sin and eyes made of quicksilver. A genius and a victim who would not be victimised. The guy was clearly smitten with Neal already, all it would take was a bit of Caffrey charm and the balls to go after what he wanted. The key, he decided, was to feel more than he thought. If he thought about it, he'd probably panic and talk himself out of it, and he didn't want to do that. He wanted to follow the thunder in his heart and see where it lead, just like he'd always done. He could do it. He could love a man. Hell, maybe he already did.

Only one way to find out.


	4. Chapter 4

**We Were Never Forever**

**Four  
**

**New York City: April 17, 2011  
**  
"You're distracted." John's words sent a spike straight through Sherlock's brain.

"Say that again." Sherlock's voice was low and menacing, a dare.

"You are. And don't get like that, you know I'm right. He's distracting you. Neal. I saw it in the conference room, and so did most of the task force. Deny it, and you're an idiot. You need to deal with him."

"I need to deal with Mycroft." Sherlock corrected. "I think dropping his stupid umbrella in a vat of sulphuric acid might be a start."

"Sherlock." John's voice had that teaching-Sherlock-to-be-human quality to it. Sherlock rolled his eyes and rounded on him. They were more than halfway to the hotel by now, and he just wanted to be inside with his violin, _not _thinking about Neal Caffrey.

"John, please, don't turn this into one of your lessons. It's over. It happened. You can't change it. Just let it die!"

"You've held onto it. All these years. What happened back there? You and Neal? That's not over, Sherlock. That's the very opposite of over. You still have feelings for him."

"All negative, I assure you."

John shook his head. "Are you still in love with him?"

Sherlock glared. Why did John have to keep _pushing _like this? "I loved him once. I was young, I didn't know any better."

"That's bollocks, Sherlock. As much as you want to pretend it's all just transport, the fact remains that you're a man." John let out a long breath. "And you're hurting. And I hate that. Talk to him. Deal with it, together. Whatever happened between you two...it's still there. And it's going to get in the way of this case if you let it fester like this."

Sherlock groaned and let himself fall back against the glittering stone wall of the nearest building. John was right, damn him. Sherlock was losing control just being _near _Neal. Just thinking about Neal. "I don't want to talk about this here. Let's go to the hotel."

John nodded and started walking again, and Sherlock pushed himself upright so they were side-by-side all the way to reception. Sherlock still thrilled at that, at having someone who didn't want to lead or follow, but who kept in-step the whole way. People, usually soon-to-be-arrested people, sometimes called John Sherlock's dog, or his pet. Idiots. John Watson stood in no man's shadow, but he was glad to cast his own and let them mingle until they were indistinguishable from each other.

And that, more than anything, was what led Sherlock to this decision, and what gave him the strength to speak after he'd closed the door to their suite, knowing even before he looked that John was standing patiently, watching and waiting, ready to listen but not demanding a thing.

"He used to paint me." Sherlock said softly. John made no move, no sound, he just listened. "I think that was how it started. I'd never felt so..." he blushed, unable to meet John's eyes. "Beautiful. Before Neal painted me for the first time. After that," and he smiled ruefully. "I doubt I stood a chance in hell of resisting him."

::

Elizabeth swung the tray with practiced ease, the tiny canapés coming to rest inches from Neal's face. He selected one, popped it into his mouth, and his eyes rolled back of their own accord.

"Well?" She prompted.

"I saw heaven." He replied. Peter groaned, but he greedily snatched three of the hors d'oeuvres for himself and all but inhaled them. Neal smirked. Philistine.

"Unbelievable, honey." He mumbled around a mouthful. Elizabeth shook her head fondly and patted Peter's arm with warm affection. The woman had the patience of a saint.

Elizabeth set the tray down on an end table and slipped onto the arm of Peter's chair so she was almost in his lap, and his arm went around her automatically. As far as Neal could tell, the man hadn't even realized he was doing it. Neal spared a moment to mourn that he would never know that easy adoration with Kate, then another to mourn the loss of that same affection that he'd had with Sherlock. Speaking of...

"So, Neal, Peter tells me you're working with an old flame." She bobbed her eyebrows and popped one of her own samples into her mouth. She chewed it critically, then pulled out a small notepad and wrote something down. "Is it him? The...what did Mozzie say? The Automaton?"

Neal smirked. "I only ever dated one guy, so yes. And where does Mozzie get off calling Sherlock a machine? He never met him."

She arched her eyebrows, incredulous. "Neal, since when did Mozzie have to meet someone to know everything about them?" She paused. "Well, except for this guy. Mozzie called him a blank ledger and then grumbled for ten minutes about Darwin."

Peter looked up at her. "Honey, how much time have you been spending with him, exactly?"

She patted his shoulder reassuringly. "If you'd bother to learn how to play scopa I could spend my Tuesday lunches with you instead."

Peter mouthed the word "scopa?" and crinkled his forehead.

"Italian card game." Neal translated. Peter nodded.

"He did show me his website." Elizabeth added. "It's...interesting. Actually, honey, you might like it. It's all about crime solving and science." She addressed that last part to Peter.

"Sherlock has a website?" Neal asked, feeling strangely behind in the conversation. It was a novel experience, and not one he enjoyed so far.

"You didn't know?" Peter demanded. "How did you not know?" Elizabeth swatted him on the arm and he made a big show of rubbing it and glaring at her.

Neal looked away, struggling to hide a blush just barely creeping over his skin. "I tried not to think about him too much. I stopped trying to get in touch with him not long after I met Kate. It just seemed better that way." He sighed. "He probably knew all about her from the start. That damn brother of his."

"Brother?" Peter asked. "Wait...you mean our contact. That Myles guy."

"Mycroft." Neal said, and the name tasted bitter and oily on his tongue. "His name, is Mycroft."

Peter grimaced. "Mycroft. Sherlock. What kind of parent names their kid something like that?"

Neal smirked. "An aristocratic British family with a long history. Sherlock is named for a great-uncle, I think, and Mycroft is named for their grandfather. It's really not all that unusual, in their social circle. Well, Mycroft's social circle anyway. I think Sherlock severed all ties outside of his brother and his mom years ago."

"Why would he do that?" Peter asked.

Neal cocked an eyebrow. "Remember the Wilkes creep I told you about?"

"Yeah."

"That's why."

::

**Cambridge: January 28, 2000  
**  
Sherlock fidgeted, plucking at a loose thread in his sleeve. What was he doing here? This was a mistake, it had all the indicators of a massive, catastrophic mistake. He didn't belong here, he wasn't that sort of bloke.

Well, he wasn't any sort of bloke, when it came down to it. He was the anti-bloke. He defied "sorts" in their entirety. He was type-less. And he was sitting awkwardly on Neal's minimalist sofa, trying very hard not to think about what was going to happen. He'd have had better luck trying to mop up the Atlantic with a bog roll.

Neal's flat was...well it wasn't _posh _exactly but it was sleek. It was all shining surfaces and clean lines, and everything about it said "cool". Sherlock was utterly foreign to the concept of "cool", yet Neal seemed to embody and radiate it. So, it turned out, did his furniture.

At least he still had some of his good clothes from back home. He was wearing a blue cashmere sweater that clung to his chest and hips, emphasising the lean, slender line of his torso without calling attention to the skinniness of his arms. He'd also managed to find very nearly pressed trousers that gripped just tightly enough to his arse and complemented the hard lines of his gangly legs. He was still a gawky bean pole, but at least he looked presentable enough. Of course, all the designer togs Mycroft's money could buy still couldn't make him look half as effortlessly handsome as Neal did with nothing more than a pair of jeans, a cotton shirt and unseasonably warm weather.

As though bidden by Sherlock's thoughts, Neal came into the lounge from the kitchen, a steaming mug in his hands. "Here." He said.

"What is it?" Sherlock asked, eyeing the mug. It was brown and looked hand-crafted, but skillfully so, with a warm glaze over the thick clay. Artisan work.

Neal rolled his eyes. "It's spiced cider. I don't have any hot chocolate and I'm 'rubbish' at making tea, but I always drank this back home when it was cold." The Britishism sat indolently on Neal's tongue, and yet he hadn't seemed the least bit awkward using it. Usually American accents sounded jarring to Sherlock, but Neal's voice seemed to gentle every word he spoke. It was dizzying.

Sherlock took the mug, it was incredibly hot and he had to surreptitiously slide the sleeves of his shirt over his palms to hold it. Neal wandered over to the window, where a fresh snow was falling. "It's finally acting like January out there." He said with a shake of his head. "Man, and I thought New York weather was unpredictable."

"You're from New York?" Sherlock asked. So much for his midwest theory. "Which borough?"

Neal smirked and huffed a short laugh. "Classic mistake, rookie. Upstate New York, and I'm not from there." He walked over to the sofa, and Sherlock felt himself tense, though he wasn't sure if it was in apprehension or anticipation. Probably both.

"So." Neal said. "You ready?"

Sherlock hunched over his mug and bought a few moments by taking a sip. It was scalding hot and far sweeter than he liked. He swallowed it down and tried to hide his grimace. Unable to meet Neal's eyes he said, "What do I do?"

Neal took the mug with a soft smile. "Whatever you want. Find a comfortable position and I'll see if I can work with it." His eyes flickered to the window, the lighting fixtures, and Sherlock. "Winter light is perfect for you."

Sherlock curled in on himself a little more, missing the mug for the convenient excuse it provided. He looked around at the sofa, the chairs, the fireplace, the artwork-studded walls. "Where?" He asked.

Neal shrugged. "Sofa's fine. Lie down if you like."

Sherlock did, and as he moved he realized to his horror that the was shaking. Christ, was this how other people felt when he looked at them? He'd never before felt so _scrutinized _as he did under Neal's gaze.

"Why am I doing this?" He whispered, staring up at Neal's ceiling.

Neal snorted, moving to pull a metal framed easel from the corner. "Because you've got nothing better to do while the inks set, and because it's been over a week since Seb stopped protecting you, but you haven't been accosted by anyone."

"How did you do that?" Sherlock asked. "You never told me."

Neal shrugged. "I have my methods. Let's just say the rugby crowd has other things on its mind these days."

"You said you'd use their girlfriends." Sherlock pointed out, his eyes tracking Neal as he hefted a medium sized canvas onto the easel. "Did you seduce them?"

Another smirk. He seemed to use them as regularly as other people blinked. "Would it matter to you if I did?"

"No." Sherlock answered immediately, then cursed himself. Too quick, idiot!

Neal laughed. "I didn't. I just talked to them. It's not my fault if I'm more charming and romantic than the guys they're dating. I'm certainly not responsible for any raised standards they might have acquired, or any newfound reluctance they might have about taking their boyfriends to bed."

And Sherlock laughed, genuinely _laughed_, loud and deep and real. He couldn't remember the last time he'd laughed like that.

"Like that!" Neal breathed, his face flushed, and Sherlock froze. "Just like that, Sherlock! Oh, God, your _eyes_."

Sherlock wrinkled his forehead, confused, and Neal was upon him, his hands positioning Sherlock's shoulders, his arms, and then his legs and suddenly Sherlock had trouble breathing.

"No, no, don't lose it!" Neal was almost frantic. "Think about what just happened. Think about what made you laugh. I want to paint you when you look like that. God, you're so beautiful."

Sherlock's heart stuttered. Oh, Christ he was gonna die if Neal didn't stop. _Beautiful, beautiful, he called me beautiful_. On and on in an endless loop inside his mind and Neal's hands were still on him, touching and pushing and _oh God_.

He drew a ragged breath, and tried to focus on the conversation, on the laughter, but all he could think about was Neal and Neal's hands and Neal's gaze and Neal's body so _fucking _close!

"Damn it." Neal said softly. "You're impossible. It can't be done. I can't pose you."

"What? Why?"

Neal smiled. "You always look so good. Everything I try looks perfect, and I can't decide."

Sherlock cocked an eyebrow. "You're lying. You're conning me."

Neal shook his head. "I'd never con you, Sherlock. Just relax, find a position that's comfortable, and think about how I made you laugh." And with that he moved away. Sherlock was briefly disoriented by the sudden shock of cold when Neal's body heat was gone, but he composed himself.

He let himself relax, rest, drift. He slid inside his mind, accessing the file that held their conversation, scrolling through words, inflections, body language, emotional responses, visual cues. The girlfriends. Neal and his endless charm and sophistication. An entire team of blue-balled rugby morons, and Sherlock was smiling. His body went lax, and he felt himself falling into familiar habits. He shifted himself back on the sofa so that his head was resting on the soft throw pillow propped against the arm, his legs straight out. He thought about the frustrated thugs, and about the young, beautiful women with a newly dawning awareness, and about Neal, smiling and talking with that voice so like a caress, and those eyes that looked so cold but shone with warmth and humour.

His arms moved of their own accord, elbows bending and tucking against his ribs, fingers unfurling, palms pressed together, fingertips lightly pressing against his chin as he sunk deeper and deeper into his thoughts. Beneath the pleasure and the delight of Neal's handywork, a steady buzz of knowledge, ideas, inferences and facts filled his head. The viscocity of the inks he'd made, the changes in pigmentation based on the acidic properties of the solvents, the way Neal's eyes crinkled when he smiled, and he tilted his head back slightly, fixing his eyes on the ceiling and letting his vision fall out of focus, the better to exist internally.

"My God..." The breathy whisper drifted into Sherlock's awareness, but he was too far gone now. He was surrounded by his intellect, embraced by it, swimming in it but not drowning. No, he was safe here. He belonged here. It was good. For now at least, it was so good.

There was a light shushing noise of pencil against canvas. There was the trickling sound of water swirling in a container. There was the distinct odour of oil paint, and the _hush, hush, hush_ of brush strokes. And there was Neal's breathing, just this side of heavy, just barely approaching laboured, and Sherlock was absolutely still.

Time passed, light changed, the world beyond the window gently went from bright to dark. The flat was warm, the work was quiet, and the two men were lost inside their own vocations. Sherlock didn't sleep, didn't even dose, but he had closed his eyes at some point so he could be completely inside his head.

Then, "Open your eyes for me, Sherlock." There was something thick and dark in Neal's voice. "I need to see them." It was the only direction he'd given since Sherlock had gone into his pose, though it didn't feel like posing.

He opened his eyes, and Neal drew a sharp intake of breath. "Yes." He whispered. "Yes, like that. Just like that. You're so beautiful, Sherlock. God I wish you could see you the way I can."

It was warmer, now, and Sherlock's grip on his thoughts was faltering. He was being pushed and pulled toward the surface, his body fighting to overcome his mind, to wrest Sherlock's attention from the swirl and hum inside his head, to focus it on sensation, stimulation, _desire_.

There was a sudden clatter, and Sherlock slid his gaze over to see Neal, slumped against the wall behind him, his palate on the floor, smears of paint staining the dropcloth below the canvas. Neal's shirt was gone, how had Sherlock missed that? He was wearing a thin white vest, the fabric clinging to every beautifully defined muscle in his chest and abdomen, hugging to the contours of his shoulders, framing the lean, smooth sinew of his bare arms. Sherlock's lips parted, his breath quickened along with his pulse. Neal was in much the same condition, his eyes half-lidded and obscuring pupils that Sherlock knew must have been dialated, despite the ample lighting.

Neal stepped forward, and Sherlock tensed, his arms moving down, out of their prayer-like position. Neal kept moving, coming closer, and Sherlock's heart hammerd behind his ribcage. Oh God. Oh God!

Neal was close enough now that Sherlock could feel the heat coming off his skin. He didn't move, he couldn't move. And now Neal was kneeling, falling to his knees so that his head was nearly level with Sherlock's. _Please. Please, oh please, Neal, please_! And he didn't even know what he was pleading for. His body was burning with want, and he hadn't the faintest idea _what_.

"Sherlock..." And yes, it was _exactly _like a caress, that voice that ghosted over his ear and slipped under his skin and into his blood. A hand slid into his hair, tangling in the dark curls.

"Tell me this is okay, Sherlock." There was a touch of pleading in Neal's voice now, a hint of desperation.

"Yes." He breathed. _Yes. Yes. Oh, God yes!_ His blood was singing, his mind was racing, faster even than usual, the world was spinning and he didn't want it to stop.

Neal didn't speak, didn't smile or smirk, he just used the hand buried in Sherlock's hair to angle his head a bit, and leaned down, and down, and his mouth closed over Sherlock's, their lips connecting, their breath mingling and...

_This_. Oh this, yes, exactly this! The fire in Sherlock's skin blazed hotter, his body screamed a chorus of _YES_, his hands groped blindly until they found Neal's arm and his neck. And when had he closed his eyes? No, he wanted to see. He opened them, and Neal was so close. His vision, his world was filled with Neal.

It was simple, to begin with, just pressure and movement of Neal's lips against his. But it was inexplicably difficult to draw a breath, despite his nose being unobstructed, and so he parted his lips, hoping to gasp in a breath between the sliding and slipping, but then Neal's tongue darted out and ran along the inside of his bottom lip, and he gasped and jerked back, eyes wide.

They froze, the pair of them, their eyes locked, and the only movement came from their heaving chests. Neal looked scared, almost terrified, but Sherlock, Sherlock was lost in his own body, desperate and frightened and still he was burning. It had been warm, bracing, invigorating when Neal was kissing him, but once they'd parted it just_burned_, and it was painful, and he wanted Neal to come back if only to quell the heat and make it warm again.

"Are-are you...did I..." Neal's eyes darted this way and that, studying Sherlock's face. He took in the wide eyes, the ragged breath, the raised eyebrows, and his face shifted into a bizarre mixture of horror and fascination, tinged in yearning. "Shit." He hissed. "This was your first kiss."

Sherlock nodded. He was impatient now, desperate to ease the heat devouring his body, with his eyes still locked on Neal's he reached out, curled a hand around the back of Neal's neck and brought him back. He all but slammed their mouths together, and there was a flash of pain from lips crushing against teeth, but Neal was responding, his hands came up to frame Sherlock's face, and once more that clever tongue was darting, and this time Sherlock opened up to it, let it plunge past his lips and teeth, felt it slip over his own, flickering over his palette, dancing around his mouth until it had thoroughly and completely tasted him, then doing it all again.

He felt something surging up inside of him, he was getting dizzy, he couldn't breathe. He forced himself to pull back, but kept his hand where it was, holding Neal in place.

"Second." He panted, then pressed his lips to Neal's again. That marvelous tongue returned, and this time it coaxed Sherlock's own tongue out and into Neal, and the shock of the heat and the wet and the idea that he was_inside Neal_ in any capacity made his world catch fire, and suddenly he wasn't burning anymore but _blazing_. He_was _the fire, part of it, one with it, and God it was good!

He mapped the inside of Neal's mouth, committed every millimetre to memory. Then backed it up, creating an entirely new file folder marked "Neal" where he would keep all of this and everything that followed. Years later, he would try to delete that folder, and fail, and the resulting sulk would keep him still and silent for nearly two weeks. Nobody would notice.

But now, in the glorious, blinding light of _now_, Sherlock was experiencing bliss for the first time, and he wanted more. Always more. Once he had charted the new territory of Neal's mouth, he pulled away again, keeping their lips pressed together until the very last second.

"Third." He managed, but the word was difficult to form, and his voice was tight and strained. That didn't stop him, though, from rising up again and pulling Neal forward for number four.

::

Fourth. This was the fourth. Yes, right, numbers and...and words and breathing, breathing getting kind of difficult here. Oh God, so soft! He wanted so much, Neal could feel it in the desperation, the eagerness of Sherlock's kisses. Oh God he was _kissing _Sherlock! Could he give it? Did he have enough? Was he ready? Was Sherlock ready?

Sherlock seemed to think so. His hands drifted down to the waistband of Neal's slacks and tugged up, forcing Neal up and onto the couch, onto Sherlock. Sherlock smiled into the kiss and let out a contented breath. It ghosted over Neal's lips.

Sherlock was a completely new experience. His kiss was harder, more demanding than any Neal had ever known. He felt somewhat as though Sherlock were devouring him, though he couldn't bring himself to dislike it. Sherlock tasted different, too. Toothpaste and spiced cider mixed with something metallic and chemical, as though his long hours in the lab had caused his experiments to absorb into his skin, his lungs, his blood. Even so, it tasted good. Sherlock tasted so...good.

They pressed closer, their bodies flush, the heat of their chests burning through their clothes. It was nice, Neal thought, not like with women. There was no softness here, none of that pillowing, welcoming curviture he loved so much. No, this was hard, and lean. There was no distance here, no in-between, just pressure and contact and _not enough_.

Breathing was becoming increasingly problematic, though, so Neal decided it was finally his turn to break a kiss, and he pulled himself back, ending kiss number four. Sherlock made a soft sound of protest, very nearly a whimper, but it cut off the moment Neal pressed his lips to the corner of Sherlock's jaw, and then to the join of his jaw and his neck, and then to the thick blue vein which stood starkly against Sherlock's very pale skin. Neal kissed down Sherlock's neck, occasionally lapping his tongue over salty skin, or scraping his teeth lightly over the places he'd just kissed. Sherlock writhed and panted beneath him, arching his head back, baring his throat, begging wordlessly for more.

Neal gave him more, he kissed and licked and bit ever so gently until he found the place where Sherlock's pulse fluttered madly just under his skin. Once he found it, he gave a quick smirk, lowered his head, and _sucked_.

Sherlock jerked and gave a yelp, his fingers flew to Neal's hair, tangling and tugging and pressing him close. Neal sucked again, and Sherlock made a sound deep in his throat, a low rumble like the purr of a cadillac, dark and smooth as Italian leather, sinful and sexy and debauched, and the noise went straight to Neal's groin, and he felt himself stirring, filling with heat and blood and desperate need, and he longed to thrust his hips against the firm, hot thigh beneath him.

Sherlock drew a sharp breath, and his eyes flew open. His body tensed and froze, even his breathing ceased.

"Sherlock?" Neal lifted his head, scanning Sherlock's face for some sign of pain or discomfort.

"You..." Sherlock's voice was barely more than an exhale of air. "You want me." His eyes were wide with shock.

Neal smiled. "No shit, Sherlock." He said. "What was your first clue?"

"I...I can feel..." He looked...scared. Neal felt a flutter of panic, and shifted his hips so his erection wouldn't press against Sherlock's body. Sherlock's hand flew out to stop him, to hold him where he was. The pressure felt good, but Neal didn't let himself get lost in it. He kept his eyes firmly on Sherlock's face, searching, waiting.

And Sherlock shifted himself, slipping down until they lined up, and Neal felt Sherlock's own arousal against his. He groaned and had to close his eyes. Nothing, nothing at all could have prepared him for that. "Sh-Sherlock!" He gasped. Beneath him, Sherlock rocked his hips, and something exploded behind Neal's eyes, filling his head with white and hot and hard until there was nothing else. He extended his arm and frantically felt for the arm of the couch and gripped it tight.

Sherlock rocked his hips again and Neal cried out, his head falling forward until his forehead was pressed against Sherlock's. "Oh my God." He panted. "Oh my God." This was getting away from him. He was losing control, and it was too much, far too much.

Sherlock shifted under him, and the intense heat and friction vanished. Neal whimpered and rocked forward, trying to find it again. He opened his eyes, his gaze pleading, but Sherlock shook his head and took Neal's hand. Silently, his eyes locked on Neal's, his body trembling, he guided Neal's hand down, between their chests, and down again, between their abdomens, and still down, between their-

"No." Neal said, keeping his voice soft but definite. He twisted his hand so he could lace his fingers through Sherlock's. "Not yet."

Emotions flickered across Sherlock's expression. Relief, confusion, doubt, worry, fear, shame. Neal's heart splintered and cracked, and he pressed a reassuring kiss to Sherlock's lips.

"I don't understand." Sherlock whispered. "Don't you want to?"

Neal nodded. "Yes. More than you could possibly know."

"Then why? You want me, I can feel it." He canted his hips up, grinding the two of them together, and Neal groaned. "I want you, too. See?" Again, that flash of pleasure and pain as their erections met, crushed between their bodies and their clothes. "Why stop?"

Neal had to wait a moment for Sherlock's words to reach his addled brain, and another for them to actually make sense. He took a deep breath, and his lungs filled with Sherlock, and he was dizzy again. Even so, he forced himself to speak.

"You're not ready." He said, and Sherlock opened his mouth to protest but Neal silenced him with a chaste kiss. "You'd never even kissed before tonight. Trust me when I say you're not ready. And," he bit his lip, feeling his face flush. "To be honest, I don't think I'm ready either. I've never been with a man, Sherlock. This is too fast, and it's too much, and I couldn't live with myself if tomorrow morning you regretted me."

Sherlock sighed. "Yes. Right. Thank you." But he didn't look grateful. He looked frustrated and ashamed. He turned his head away, and his eyes were too bright.

"Sherlock, look at me." Neal said. Sherlock ignored him, fixing his eyes on the back of the easel. "Sherlock, please." He pressed his index finger to Sherlock's jaw and moved his head to face him. Reluctantly, Sherlock's eyes slid over to Neal as well.

"What?"

Neal took a breath. "I want you. I really, desperately want you. It's killing me to stop." He lowered his head and brought Sherlock into another kiss, and he made it hard and hungry, desperate to convey all of his longing, all of his aching want in the pressure of his lips, the bite of his teeth and the frenzy of his tongue. Pulling away was like cutting off a limb. "But it's better this way. We need time. We need to go slow."

"I don't want slow!" Sherlock whined, threading his hands through Neal's hair and trying to pull him down. Neal resisted, though it was like tearing out his own lungs.

"I know." He said. "But I don't want cheap. Or painful. And trust me, if we go any further, that's what it's gonna be. I'll kiss you, God I doubt I could stop, but we're not ready to do the rest."

"Why not?" Sherlock snarled, and he thrust his head forward to bite Neal's lower lip. It hurt, and Neal wanted him to do it again.

"Because if I start, I won't be able to stop." He lowered his head to kiss Sherlock again, proving his point. "If I just kiss you, I can hold back, but if you let me in..."

"Then kiss me." Sherlock snapped, and Neal wondered how he could ever have thought of Sherlock as anybody's lackey, much less _Sebastian's_.

"As you wish." He smirked, and he dipped his head, his mouth seeking Sherlock's until they were once again lost in the haze of each other, cradled in the warmth of two bodies held close, two hearts beating fast, and two breaths blending into one.


	5. Chapter 5

**We Were Never Forever  
Five**

* * *

**Cambridge: January 29, 2000**

Awareness crashed into Sherlock, shocking him from sleep and tightening his skin around his bones. The events of the previous night paraded through his mind at speed: nervous fidgeting and too-sweet cider burning his tongue, comfort and peace and the feel of his back against the cushions, a million tiny sounds that made up a painting in progress, Neal, Neal, _Neal_.

The memory of kissing danced over his lips, and he raised a hand to press his fingers against them. They felt odd, tender and slightly swollen. He figured if he looked in a mirror he'd see a red flush to them. Turned out he liked when Neal bit him, but not too hard. Interesting information, that.

And then...the memory of their "discussion". Well, really it had been Neal's levelheadedness and Sherlock practically begging like a tupenny whore. He felt a flush of humiliation creep into his cheeks. Dear _God_ what had he been thinking? What would he have done if Neal hadn't held back? Would it have hurt? Would he be experiencing a full blown panic attack right now instead of mild hyperventilation? His body felt wrong, ill-used and they hadn't even _done_anything. But they'd come close. Sherlock thought back to the moment when he'd tried to guide Neal's hand to his...to his...oh Christ, he couldn't even think it! He was pathetic. A child. Any second now Neal was going to realize just how inexperienced and skittish Sherlock really was and he'd move on to the nearest set of perky breasts and round hips that caught his fancy. Better that way, better if they'd never-

"Morning." A voice, thick with sleep, crept up from behind him on the couch. It really was a deep, plush sofa. Capable of comfortably accomodating two full-grown male bodies and...and it had done just that. Sherlock remembered what had happened after the kissing, when they had rolled on their sides and just smiled at each other like idiots, when Sherlock had twisted round in Neal's arms so that he could feel Neal's heartbeat between his own shoulder blades. He realised that he could feel Neal's arm draped over his waist, and Neal's breath hot against the back of his neck.

His own breath quickened. He felt himself tense.

"Hey, hey, shhh, it's alright." Neal was instantly soothing him, whispering into his ear and stroking his hand along his ribcage. "It's okay, we're fine."

"I'm sorry." Sherlock whispered. He honestly meant it this time. It was hard to imagine a sorrier specimen than Sherlock Holmes at this moment. "I don't know what came over me. I'm not...I don't do that."

There was a sharp exhale, a laugh without a voice. "How do you know? Last night was your first time. Sherlock, everyone gets carried away at first. It's a lot of sensation to process, and sometimes it's hard to think rationally. I almost lost it, too, remember? You have nothing to be ashamed of." He pressed himself more fully against Sherlock's back, making him relax slightly. "If it helps, last night was incredible for me. I haven't felt that raw in a long time. I really, _really_hope it was good for you, too."

"I think my wanton sex mania might have indicated that." Sherlock sniped, but his heart wasn't in it. Something Neal had said was sticking oddly in his mind, chipping away at a wall he didn't honestly think he wanted to dismantle. Something about last night...

Neal laughed. "You were hardly wanton. God I love that you actually talk like that."

But Sherlock was barely paying attention, even when Neal's hand began to card through his hair, which felt incredibly pleasant, actually. Too bad he was so distracted. Last night...last night...what was so important about-

He shot up into a sitting position, and Neal gave a little yelp of surprise. "Last night!" He cried, his eyes wide and frantic. "_Last night_! Oh shit! I stayed over!" He clambered off the couch looking around desperately for his coat and shoes. "Oh bollocks, oh bollocks, oh _bollocks_!" He struggled into his left shoe, still unsure where to find its mate.

"Sherlock, what's wrong? Nothing happened."

"No, no that doesn't _matter_!" He cried, desperate. "He'll know! Oh God, I didn't tell him. I never even _said_. Shit. Shit, shit, shit, oh _fuck_." He finally found his right shoe lying under an end table. "Listen, Neal, this is very important. Don't fight. Whatever happens, just don't fight, and remember: you _didn't shag me_last night."

"I _didn't_, Sherlock. What are you talking about? What's wrong?"

He slipped into his coat, fumbling when he realized one of the sleeves was inside-out. "I'm so sorry, Neal. I have to go. I have to find him. Maybe if I explain..."

"Sherlock, who?" Neal's voice was louder, and his expression slightly panicked.

Sherlock just swooped down to kiss him, chastely, he hadn't had a chance to brush his teeth yet. "I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry Neal. Thank you for everything, last night was wonderful. And...thank you for stopping me."

"No problem. Sherlock, what's going on?"

"It would take too long. I have to go." He was already hurrying to the door. "I'm sorry! _A bientôt_!"

"Sure thing." But Sherlock barely heard it before he slammed the door and all but flew down the stairs to the front entrance. There was no way in hell this wouldn't end badly.

::

Neal slumped back onto the couch. Well, that was...interesting. What was Sherlock so frantic about? Neal got the distinct impression he was in some kind of trouble. Well, okay. He could deal with trouble.

Maybe half an hour passed before a shrill ring blasted from the kitchen, and Neal scrambled up to snatch his cell from the fruit bowl (which didn't actually have any fruit in it). He checked the caller ID and swore under his breath, but he accepted the call.

"Victor Trevor." He said. "What do you got for me? ...Okay wait, wait, slow down Croy, what happened?" He winced and swore silently. "Okay, but you can still get the paper, right?" He had to hold the phone away from his ear for a moment. "Yes, yes, alright! I'll be there. Just give me a few minutes. ...I understand. ...No, I'll take care of it. I'm on my way." He hung up and snatched up his coat. He made it halfway to the door before he realized he wasn't wearing shoes.

Half an hour later, he was walking into an empty car park and _not_looking over his shoulder. At all. Nervous people look over their shoulders. Con men are never nervous.

Of course, if he _had_looked over his shoulder, he might've had some warning before the two large men in hooded jackets appeared behind him and grabbed him by the arms. He went stiff and started trying to twist out of their holds.

"Don't fight, Mr Trevor." A voice, cultured and cold, drifted up from the waist of the guy on his left. It was tinny. A walkie-talkie, probably. "Things will go so much better for you if you don't fight."

_Whatever happens, just don't fight._

"Damn you, Sherlock." Neal muttered. But he went limp and allowed himself to be led inside, where a van was waiting. He was bundled inside, where a young and very attractive man was diligently typing away at a PDA.

Neal let out a sigh. "So you're here to intimidate me, huh?"

The man didn't look up. "Nope."

Neal fidgeted. "Tempt me?"

"Nope."

Neal nodded. "Okay, then you're here to observe me, report on everything I say or do, and simultaneously keep me uneasy so I'm off my game."

He didn't look up, but he did smile. "How am I doing?"

Neal let out a breath. "Really, really well." He paused. "You got a name?"

The man paused, pursing his lips. "Nolan." He said, but without any sense of familiarity.

"Of course it is." Neal smirked. "My name is Victor."

"Of course it is." "Nolan" retorted, matching Neal's expression.

After a time, the van rolled to a stop, the driver got out and the door beside Neal slid open. With a resigned sigh, Neal slid out. "Later Nolan."

"Not much, Neal."

Neal rounded on him, but before he could say a word the door slid shut and the voice from the walkie-talkie came back, this time without the tinniness or static.

"Please have a seat Mr Trevor." The voice called. Neal spun round to see a tall, imposing man in a three-piece suit, holding an umbrella. He was young, just over thirty at a guess, and his body had the soft, thick quality of someone still adjusting to life behind a desk and an expanded food budget. Probably too many business dinners, too. He was tilting his head toward a folding chair.

Neal walked toward him, looking around. They were underground, surrounded on all sides by concrete and columns. "Where am I?"

"That is of no consequence. Do have a seat." The man gestured with his free hand and leaned on the umbrella as though it were a cane.

"I'll stand." Neal replied, still walking forward. "You found Croy."

"Found? Hardly. Mr Davis Croyden has been under serveilance for the past twenty-two months."

Neal blinked, but made no other show of his surprise. Damn. Croy had been so _careful_. "Okay, you have my attention. It'll take me weeks to locate a new supplier." He paused. "But that's not what this is about, is it?"

He examined the man. Thick, dark hair. High, proud forehead. Sharp nose, long neck, blunt chin.

And eyes fashioned from smoke and ice, glittering out at the world with barely contained intelligence that bordered on madness. And while these eyes were bluer, and more remote, they were undeniably similar to the ones he'd spent the better part of an evening gazing into.

"It's you." He breathed. "You're Mycroft Holmes."

Mycroft smiled, and Neal had to suppress the urge to bolt in the opposite direction. Sharks smiled like that, not men.

"Ah, yes, but then, I would expect such a level of observation from you Mr Trevor." He raised his eyebrows. "That is the name you prefer when dealing with government officials and law enforcement, is it not?" He pulled out a leather bound notebook and flipped through the pages idly. "Ah, yes, Victor Trevor, late of San Francisco. I must say your paperwork is masterfully fabricated. One would almost be inclined to take it as genuine." He looked up with only his eyes, and Neal felt like a disappointment. "Almost."

"How do you know that?" Neal licked his lips. God he was scared. When had he last been this scared? The last time he could remember had been when he was seven and the shadows on his wall had looked like gnarled hands. Mycroft gave every impression that, should he wish it, the shadows could _become_hands, and you wouldn't know it until after they'd cut off your breathing.

Mycroft ignored his question, just flipped through the notebook some more. "Of course, considering the circumstances it might be preferable for me to call you Neal. After all, you are here as the result of a decidedly_familial_interest." His glare was made of ice and steel, and it worked its way into Neal's blood until it was all he could do to keep from shivering.

"I won't drag this out. Tell me what you want with my brother. I don't think I need be more specific."

"Nothing." Neal answered. "He's not a mark. I'm not working him."

Mycroft sneered, and he went back to his notebook. "Melissa Colbin. Amy Hague. Claire Rosling. Valerie Nance. Genevive Montmartre...I trust I make my point."

"How did you-"

"You are a man of insatiable apetite by all accounts, Mr Caffrey, and yet your palette thus far has been rather, shall we say...restricted? You have had a few serious relationships, all of them with women. Your far more numerous flings have, according to my current data, been similarly uniform in their heteronormativity."

"Who the _hell_-"

"And yet yesterday my younger brother was observed entering your flat and did not emerge until almost ten o' clock this morning. I don't have to tell you that his physical state was decidedly telling. You can understand my confusion." Odd, Neal hadn't realized until just that moment that "confusion" was a synonym for "suspicion".

"Why have you targeted my brother and to what end are you using him?"

"I'm not using him."

Mycroft smiled again, that pitying, disappointed smile. "When a confidence trickster breaks with his romantic proclivites in order to pursue a vulnerable young man with intimate ties to a Member of Parliament, it does tend to suggest otherwise Mr Caffrey."

"Vulnerable? You have met him, right?"

"Kindly don't insult me, Mr Caffrey. You read people for a living. It would be preposterous to believe for even a second that you haven't seen through my brother's frankly brittle exterior. In time, perhaps, Sherlock will learn to project a truly believable facade, but that day has not yet come." He narrowed his eyes and looked Neal up and down. "Even then, I suspect he would give you little trouble."

"I'm not using Sherlock. I have no interest in the British government or anyone working for it. Politics is boring."

Mycroft's smile this time was as slick and slimy as oil, and it gave the general impression that he'd tasted something disgusting. "Intriguing. I would almost be inclined to believe you. Tell me, did my brother prove himself an enjoyable conquest? I'm sure by now you know of his inexperience but I'd hazard what he lacked in skill he made up for in...enthusiasm."

If looks could kill, Neal would be a shattered corpse. If a voice could be toxic, Neal would be vomiting blood. There was murder in Mycroft's eyes, and Neal felt the overwhelming urge to curl up into a ball and hide.

"I didn't sleep with him."

"His face says otherwise."

"I kissed him." Mycroft raised his eyebrows and Neal amended, "A lot. And I enjoyed it, if you must know. I'll say it one more time Mr. Holmes: I am not. Using. Your brother. Yes, I've only dated women before. That doesn't mean I can't be attracted to Sherlock. I am. I like him. I want to be with him. I don't give a damn about you or your job. I only knew you existed because I was asking around, about _Sherlock_, and your name came up."

Mycroft just kept glaring, so Neal did what he did best, and kept talking. "And I get it, I really do. You're looking out for your little brother, trying to make sure he doesn't get hurt. Well I'm not out to hurt him, Mycroft." The man just barely flinched at the use of his given name, and Neal marked a point in the "win" column. "In fact, I'm pretty sure I'll end up doing the exact opposite."

"How do you figure that?" Mycroft demanded, his voice bored but his eyes sharp.

Neal smiled. "Because the second I leave this place, I'm going to find Sherlock, and I'm going to kiss him until he knows beyond any doubt that you _didn't_ scare me off." He paused a moment to think. "And if, someday, we do end up in bed together, it will be because both of us want it and, honestly? It'll be _none of your goddamn business_." And with that he spun on his heel and strode back toward the van. Mycroft's voice halted him mid-stride.

"I will give you one warning, Mr Caffrey, and only one. You have no idea what you're getting into. Sherlock is unlike anyone you've ever known. He will push you. He won't even realise he's doing so. You are an exceptional man, Neal." A pause. "Do you honestly think yourself exceptional enough to tame him?"

Neal thought for a long moment, then replied, "I would sooner burn the Sistine Chapel than tame Sherlock Holmes." And he walked to the van, yanked the door open, and climbed inside. "Nolan" was waiting for him.

"Address?"

"Just take me to the university. I'll take it from there."

::

Sherlock flopped back onto his bed and slapped his hands over his face. He'd spent the better part of an hour failing spectacularly to focus on next month's chemistry coursework before irritably blaring Vivaldi from his CD player and giving it up for a bad job.

"What am I doing?" He moaned into his hands. "This is insane. I'm insane." He barely knew Neal. He was a complete novice at anything romantic. He was incapable of connecting with another human being.

_Well you bloody well connected last night, didn't you?_His mind argued.

Sherlock glowered at nothing and focussed on taking deep, steadying breaths. He'd just about managed to get his head into something resembling order when his mobile buzzed on the desk. He scrambled up from the mattress and snatched it, checking the caller ID.

[Withheld Calling]

Sherlock groaned and pressed the phone to his forehead, feeling the vibrations reverberate through his skull, then let out a long hiss of air and answered it.

"You absolute _bastard_, I've been trying to reach you!" He shouted. "When did you change your number?"

"One can never be too careful, Sherlock." Mycroft's smooth, disinterested voice oozed through the reciever. It felt oily in Sherlock's ear.

"You lying arse! You did it deliberately to keep me from getting through!"

"You could have discovered my new number with a little effort." Mycroft chided.

Sherlock gritted his teeth. "This is a university, Mycroft, not MI-5. My resources are slightly lacking here."

"Feeble excuses. I expect better of you."

Sherlock groaned and scrubbed his hand through the short hairs at the nape of his neck. He was assaulted by a sudden sense memory of Neal doing something very similar but much slower and far more intense. He shivered.

"No riposte? I'm surprised at you, little brother."

Sherlock closed his eyes and waited out the arousal. It lingered, but he tamped it down with fraternal annoyance. "Is it finished?" He demanded.

"You understand why it had to be done, Sherlock." Nothing in his tone indicated a question, but Sherlock could read Mycroft's uncertainty as clearly as if it were painted on the wall in glowing block letters.

"Yes." Sherlock sighed. "I understand."

"Well?"

"Well what?"

There was a huff of exasperated air. "Don't you want to know how it went?"

Sherlock grimaced. "I don't need to ask. Your heavies grabbed him on the way to some illegal transaction, loaded him into a van, then drove him somewhere remote where you proceeded to intimidate him into submission and now he'll never want to speak to me again."

There was a light chuckle. "Well done, Sherlock, you were very nearly accurate on all accounts."

Sherlock perked up. "Nearly? What did I get wrong?" He was sitting up now, clutching the phone in a vice grip.

"Neal Caffrey, alias Victor Trevor, seems resistant to intimidation. He puts up a good front, anyway. Oh, it was painfully obvious that he was terrified, but he didn't back down."

Sherlock swallowed nervously. "And...and me?"

There was a smile in Mycrofts voice when he said, "He compared you to the Sistine Chapel, as a matter of fact."

Sherlock let himself fall back onto his pillow. Something seized his heart and began to toy with its beats, making them irregular and far too strong. "He did?" Sherlock breathed. "What did he say?"

"The ceiling was found wanting." Heat surged in Sherlock's chest, his skin tingled as though sparks were playing over the surface. Something light and frothy and giddy bubbled up inside him, and he found he was smiling like an idiot.

"Thank you, Mycroft." He said, completely sincere for once.

"Be careful, Sherlock. He is a criminal, remember." Mycroft sighed. "But he seems smitten with you, and I don't believe he represents any kind of threat. Even so, please don't get carried away. Don't do something you'll regret."

"I won't. I- I'll try. My love to mum."

"Of course. Good-bye, Sherlock."

"Bye, Mycroft."

He hung up. Moments later, there was a knock at the door. He grinned and vaulted to his feet, tossing his phone carelessly to the mattress. He cleared the space to the door in a bound and yanked it open.

Neal frowned at him from the corridor, then shook his head with a sigh and raised his eyebrows incredulously.

"Look," Sherlock began. "I can-"

"Shut up." And Neal was in the room, his hands on either side of Sherlock's face, and then they were pressed together, chest to chest and lips to lips, and Sherlock barely registered Neal closing and locking the door before his world went soft and golden at the edges.

When they broke for air, Sherlock realised they had somehow made it to the bed. He gasped in great gulps of air, and Neal tilted his head thoughtfully.

"Vivaldi?" Neal asked. Sherlock only nodded. Neal grinned. "Nice."

Sherlock, despite his chaotic breathing, managed to cock an eyebrow. "The Sistine Chapel?" He teased.

Neal didn't look even a little abashed. "Absolutely." He breathed, and he lowered his head to claim another kiss, and Sherlock ignited once more.

::

**New York City: April 17, 2011**

"How _could_you?" Sherlock screamed into the phone. He didn't want to text, not for this. Out of the corner of his eye he saw John flinch, but he ignored it.

"Of all the underhanded, conniving, petty things you've done over the course of my life, this one stands apart. How could you do this to me?"

The line was silent. Sherlock raged. "Say something you bloated arse!" He shouted.

"It was a decade ago." Mycroft said, as though time meant something. As though time had anything to do with it.

"I don't fucking care! You had no right, Mycroft."

"Honestly, Sherlock. Must this be about you? I needed the best. Caffrey ranks among them."

"Someone else." Sherlock hissed. "Anyone else. Not him. I can't do this, Mycroft. Don't ask me to do this."

"Your vulnerability is distressing, Sherlock. I suggest you learn to overcome it. Caffrey is a resource, nothing more. Utilise him, finish the job, then move on. Surely you haven't forgotten how to prioritise? One would think you'd have erradicated all of this...sentimentality years ago."

Deleted it, he meant. Sherlock winced. "I...can't." He admitted.

"No." Mycroft sighed. "I don't supposed you can."

"We're even, after this. All of it." He paused, willing his tensed muscles to relax just a little. "I will never forgive you for this, Mycroft." He said it soft, and calm. He said it with absolute conviction. He meant it.

"There are a lot of things for which you'll never forgive me, Sherlock. I do them anyway."

"Because you're a soulless shit."

Mycroft sighed again. He didn't do it as often as John, but he was undeniably superior in his execution. "Because you would never do them for yourself. Unwilling is not incapable, Sherlock. Until you learn that, I won't hesitate to push you."

"Fuck off. I don't need you. I never did."

"Very good, Sherlock. Your performance is coming along quite well."

"Go assassinate somebody. Forget I exist."

Yet another sigh. "If only."

Sherlock hung up. He slumped onto the sofa beside John and cradled his head in his hands. "I don't want to do this." He said, with all the inflection of someone announcing the need to buy a new toothbrush.

"I figured. No joy with Mycroft then?"

Sherlock snorted. "You expected different? He's an intolerable git. I just wanted to shout at him a little."

John sighed (patented John-sigh. Never as accusing as Mycroft's, it just sounded tired) and put his hand on Sherlock's shoulder. He moved it back and forth a couple of times, creating a mild friction between skin and cloth that felt warmer than it should.

"For your benefit again?" Sherlock asked.

"Both of us, I think."

"Thank you."

John licked his lips in the way that always meant he was about to say something difficult. He took a deep breath and plunged ahead. "Her name was Ellen. I was...eighteen? Yeah, eighteen. We were in school together. And I...I was certain. I mean, completely. I asked her to marry me."

"You what?"

John chuckled at Sherlock's astonished tone. "Yeah, well. I was a kid. Everything felt important back then."

"I remember." Sherlock said ruefully.

"We'd been together for three years. I was convinced she was the one."

"What happened?"

John eyed him. "You never pretend to me." He said slowly. "You're actually interested?"

"Yes." Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Go on, before I get bored with this conversation."

He shrugged. "She rejected me. She said she had no interest in being an army wife, and in retrospect she had good reason. But back then...it felt like an excuse, you know? I mean, I had no plans of joining up until after med school. Doctor first, you know. Like my granddad. It was all planned but it felt so distant back then. I was living in the moment, and she was thinking ahead. We were never gonna catch each other up by then."

Sherlock shifted on the sofa so his back was against the arm and his toes were wiggling under John's thigh, which earned him a half-hearted slap to the calf. He kicked gently and John shoved his shoulder. It made him smile. John was good at making him smile.

"I was happy." He said at last. "Neal made me...really very happy."

"What happened?"

Sherlock winced and looked away. "I got bored."

"Oh." And how brilliant was it that John understood what that meant?

"I found a way to stop being bored. I ruined everything." He studied his hands, unable to meet John's eyes. "In the end...I'd broken it too badly to fix. And I hated him. For being kind. For loving me even when I was..." He drew a shaky breath. "For not being enough to stop me." He closed his eyes and tilted his head back, enjoying the rush of blood to his brain. "And then for leaving. After all that, everything I'd done to him, he left me. And even that was out of love." He smirked, joyless. "He left me to save me. Stupid ponce."

"Did it work?"

Sherlock brought his head back up. "Nope. Made it worse. I did it on purpose, just to spite him. I consumed every recreational substance I could get my hands on, slept with complete strangers whenever I got the chance, forced myself to graduate just to keep Mycroft from getting too involved, then buggered off to London to disappear for six months..." He paused, thinking hard. "I don't remember that bit, actually. Just what I've read from Mycroft's reports. I think at one point I bit off a man's little finger, but I'm not sure."

John laughed. "So what did save you?"

Sherlock shrugged. "The Work. The cases were better. Better than anything. Distracting."

"I see." And he did, he honestly did, and that was wonderful. "Why didn't you delete him, then? Neal. I mean, I tried to forget Ellen."

Sherlock exhaled loudly. "I tried, too. But Neal is too tangled up in my work. I can't delete him without deleting a great deal of vital knowledge."

"Like what?"

Sherlock's mobile rang, he glared at the screen for a moment, then hit the answer button and held it to his ear. "Sherlock Holmes." He gritted out. He listened to the voice on the other end, frowned, then said, "Yes, of course. We'll be there soon." He hung up the phone.

"That was Special Agent Burke." He smirked at John's snort of laughter. "I think he wants to yell at us again."

"At you, you mean." John retorted, but he stood and tossed Sherlock his shoes before hunting around for his own.


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N: Scene changes all fixed, guys. Sorry about that. FF DOT net seems to love screwing with my formatting. Hope it's easier to read now.**

* * *

**We Were Never Forever  
Chapter Six**

**New York City: April 17, 2011**

"And I still say this is a very bad idea." Mozzie insisted, tracking Neal's pacing with his eyes.

"Well, we don't have much of a choice." Peter said. He was leaning against the wall near the doorway, also watching Neal's agitated circuit of the room.

"Suit, I beg of you. Listen to me. You've gotta get rid of the Automaton. Neal," he shifted focus to his friend. "You know I love you, but you're a moron when it comes to people you care about. Almost every stupid decision you've ever made since we met has been because of Kate."

"Right," said Peter. "Or Alex, or Sara. Admit it, Neal, you've got a blind spot." He sighed. "But we need this guy."

"According to his _brother_. Nepotism alive and well in the United Kingdom I see." Mozzie opined.

"Shut up Moz." Neal said quietly, coming to a halt at the window. Dusk was just beginning to fall, and the city was gradually shifting to bronze and gold. His city. His beautiful city.

Mozzie sputtered and went red. Neal smiled at him weakly. "I'm sorry, Mozzie. But you don't know what you're talking about. Mycroft would never ask Sherlock to do this if Sherlock wasn't the only man for the job." His attention wandered back to the window, and he looked down at the busy street below. A yellow cab was slowing to a halt outside of June's building. The door opened, and a pair of illogically long legs slid out, followed by the man himself in shirtsleeves. Neal's heart stammered in his chest.

"You brought him here?" He demanded, rounding on Peter.

"We need a plan of action, Neal. Sherlock needs to see the blueprints of Hale's home and office, you need to work on your cover, and Mozzie...needs to do Mozzie things."

"Hm." Mozzie hummed, peering out the window. "The Machine brought his sidekick."

"Stop that." Neal scolded. "Anyway, Sherlock doesn't do sidekicks."

"What do you mean? What else is he for?" Peter asked.

Neal smirked. "He's changed a lot, but one thing Sherlock will never do is suffer the company of anyone less competant than he is. Watson there is a medical doctor and a decorated soldier. Watch him, Peter. Watch the way he moves."

Peter came up to the window in time to see John watson nod a good-bye to the cab driver and stride up to June's front door.

"He's alert." Peter noted. "Scans his environment. Bit of a march, too, when he walks. He hasn't been a civilian for long."

"No." Agreed Neal. He could hear the distant buzz of the doorbell, and the soft click of June's kitten heels. "He hasn't."

"Working with military." Mozzie sneered. "I'm not sure how I feel about that."

"Aw, come on Moz." Peter slapped Mozzie on the back with a file folder. "It can't be worse than working with the FBI."

Mozzie narrowed his eyes. "You would say that. The only thing worse than a suit is a suit with dog tags."

A knock sounded at the door, and Neal went to open it. June smiled at him from the hallway and he gave her a quick, affectionate hug. He was still holding her when Sherlock appeared at the top of the stairs, Watson close behind.

"You know where I'll be if you need anything, sweetie." June said with a smile.

Neal grinned back, "Same to you, June."

June patted his cheek and turned to leave. She smiled at Sherlock and placed a warm hand on his arm. He returned the sentiment without restraint, which confused Neal a little, but seemed to just amuse John who offered June a handshake in parting.

"Anything at all, boys. Just downstairs."

"Thank you." The Englishmen chorused with almost identical polite reserve, and very nearly in unison. Neal could have burst out laughing, but Sherlock chose that moment to fix his gaze on him, and the mirth was swept away.

He waited for June to disappear downstairs, then glared down his nose at Neal and said, "Well?"

Neal sighed and slumped against the doorjamb. "Come in, I guess."

They did, and Neal lethargically closed the door behind them and gestured widely at the sitting room. "You've met Peter. The guy giving Watson the stink-eye is Mozzie."

"Mozzie?" Sherlock asked, sounding both disdainful and amused.

"Problem, android?" Mozzie demanded. Sherlock blinked.

"Moz, don't." Neal warned.

Mozzie deflated. "Fine."

John chuckled lightly and held out his hand to Mozzie. "Dr John Watson." He said.

Mozzie shrank away from the offered hand. "Suit with dog tags." He muttered.

John tilted his head and looked down at himself. "I'm wearing jeans." He protested.

"In cognito suit with dog tags." Mozzie conceded.

"And a Rolling Stones t-shirt." John went on, tugging at the item in question. His face was beginning to furrow, the lines in his forehead deepening with his frown.

"Only until I get a chance to burn it." Sherlock muttered. John shot him a glare.

"What if he's packing?" Mozzie demanded, addressing the question to Neal and Peter.

Peter shook his head. "Relax, Moz. Civilians can't carry handguns in the UK. Right?" He turned to Watson for confirmation.

The doctor shifted uncomfortably. "Um, right. More... more or less. Ahem."

"I remain unconvinced." Said Moz.

"Well he's not going anywhere, so I suggest if you have a problem you should leave now." Sherlock informed him.

John rolled his eyes at the both of them. "Sherlock, shut it. Mr Mozzie, here." And he slid a hand under his t-shirt and pulled out a metal chain with a set of rubber-edged dog tags dangling from a wire loop. With a frown, he slipped the chain over his head and slapped the tags onto Neal's dining table.

"How's that?" He asked, his voice flat.

"Better." Mozzie allowed.

Sherlock frowned at John. "Why were you wearing those?" He demanded.

"Later." John muttered.

"Why didn't I notice them?"

"Rolling Stones shirt. You don't look at it if you don't have to."

Sherlock glared at him, and it was like the heat had just kicked on despite the warm spring weather. "Clever." He grumbled.

John smirked. "I thought so."

"Shall we, then?" Peter asked, gesturing to the unrolled sheafs of blue prints and myriad files spread out on Neal's table.

They got to work. Sherlock and John moved in tandem, using one another as mere extentions of themselves. There were a few instances where they actually finished each other's sentences. For Neal, it was almost painful to watch. He'd been that, once. He'd stood within that cold blaze, been a part of it. He honestly caught himself wondering at one point, _What does he have that I don't?_But he pushed that thought right out of his head, because if he allowed himself to ask the question, there was a sickening chance he might learn the answer.

::

* * *

John was Not Happy. Sherlock could see it in a thousand tiny tells he doubted anyone else would pick up on. Outwardly, John projected an easy appearance of calm, sober dilligence as he listened to Agent Burke's information, contributed his own opinions and questions, examined the evidence and the plan outline, raised his concerns about Sherlock's role in the proceedings and generally made himself useful and displayed his competance in the matter-of-fact way he always did.

But Sherlock could see the tension in his shoulders, and how it increased fractionally every time Neal's small and paranoid friend spoke, which was often. Sherlock saw the dark, seething look in John's eyes when he wasn't looking at anyone, and how it vanished the moment he had to make visual contact with somebody. He noticed, especially, the nervous and frequent sidelong glances John cast at his dog tags, still sitting on the edge of the table. They were never more than a fraction of a second long, but there were enough of them to make it painfully obvious that John did not appreciate the separation.

"I can't be anywhere near this." Burke was saying, looking frustrated. "Without a warrant, nothing I'd find in that office would be admissable in court."

"Not an issue for me." Sherlock pointed out, and it was true. It never was an issue.

"Or me." Neal piped up. Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"I didn't hear that." Peter muttered. "Neal, I need you to get in close to Hale. You'll be wearing a wire so Sherlock can hear everything you two talk about, anything that might help him gain access to those offices."

"Oh, lovely." Sherlock muttered. "An evening of Caffrey charm boring into my head."

Burke sighed wearily and rubbed his forehead. "And Sherlock will be transmitting instructions to Neal as well, so Neal knows exactly how to steer the conversation."

"This should be _fun_." Neal sniped, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

"I regret this already." Peter grumbled.

"Hey suit," Mozzie inquired. "Will we actually get the chance to see these British state secrets everyone's so concerned about?"

Peter glared at the tiny man. "No, Mozzie, we won't. Sherlock will retrieve them and see them safely across the Pond. It's our job to get him in and out in one piece, got that? No peeking."

Mozzie slumped in his chair. "Got it."

"What about the rest?" John asked. "They're a ring of smugglers, right? They're moving more than just intel."

"Well we're hoping Sherlock can find enough in Hale's office to bring that down, too. But really once the information is secure, the rest is White Collar territory. Mr. Holmes only specified your involvement with the intelligence investigation."

"Yeah, but we can still help, right? I mean this is our case, too. If Sherlock hadn't found and decyphered the ledger we wouldn't have been able to connect Hale to the operation in the first place."

"That was you?" Peter asked, impressed.

Sherlock shrugged. "I almost wish I hadn't. Mycroft probably wouldn't have even considered me for this... assignment if I'd just stayed away to begin with."

"I wouldn't count on it." Neal muttered. Sherlock shot him a glare, but it was summarily ignored. Prat.

"You're the best." Neal went on, and Sherlock forced himself not to acknowledge the flutter of heat in his breast at the compliment. "Mycroft never settles for less than that."

"Well, you'd know." Sherlock sniped. Neal's face flushed red, and he looked away. The tiny Mozzie man scowled at Sherlock, and equilibrium restored.

Peter cleared his throat. "Well, I think that's enough for tonight. I'm sure we're all ready to call it a day. What do you say we regroup tomorrow, say three, three thirty, make sure everyone's on the same page?"

"Good idea." John said with a nod, and slid his chair out to stand, swiping up his dog tags as he moved. Sherlock was just about to follow when Neal reached out a hand and settled it over his.

"How long?" He asked quietly.

Sherlock glanced around. By now Peter and John were leaning against a wall, chatting about something very masculine, probably. Mozzie was staring intently at a series of bendy straws arranged in a fractal for some reason. No one was paying attention to them.

"Just over six years." He answered.

Neal jerked back as though bitten. "What? Why did you wait so long?"

Sherlock didn't look at him. He kept his eyes on John, which was comforting. "I didn't have anything better to do." He said, and he kept his voice flippant. He didn't say, _to prove to you that you shouldn't have left_. He didn't say,_ to prove to myself that I deserved to lose you_. He certainly didn't say, _I wasn't strong enough to stop_. Really, there were dozens of reasons, all more humiliating than the last. How to choose? So he didn't bother.

"What did it?" Neal asked, and Sherlock risked a look at his ex, to see Neal carefully monitoring the activity in the room, ensuring they weren't overheard. "In the end. What made you decide to..."

Sherlock shrugged. "There was a question nobody else could answer. I got it right, they treated me like a god. Then they found out I was..." He pretended to inspect his fingernails and cleared his throat. "I didn't want their pity. I'd had enough of yours."

Neal gritted his teeth. "You idiot." He muttered. "I never pitied you, you ass. I loved you."

"You loved who you wanted me to be." Sherlock shot back. "I was never going to be your masterpiece, Neal." He smiled, but it was more of a sneer and it felt sickly on his lips. He snatched his hand away, ignoring the dumbstruck expression on Neal's face, and advanced on John and Peter. He just caught a snippet of conversation.

"Yeah, that sounds great. Incredible, actually. I'll definitely-" But John didn't get to finish before Sherlock hooked an arm around his elbow and yanked him away.

"Come on, John. We're going."

"Oi!" John protested, but he followed. He always followed, when he knew Sherlock needed him. It was one of his quieter strengths.

::

* * *

"You okay, Neal?" Peter asked.

Neal said nothing. His head was pounding, his hand still tingled with residual warmth from Sherlock's fingers, his chest ached and he was heartsick in a way he hadn't thought he could feel after Kate... after Kate.

Mozzie slid into the chair beside him and placed a steady hand on his shoulder. "Hey... it's gonna be okay, man. Just a few more days and it'll all be over."

Neal couldn't raise his head, couldn't look anyone in the eye. "It was all over a long time ago, Moz." He said. "It's time I let it die."

::

* * *

"I hate blokes like him." John spat. He'd finally given up trying to get Sherlock to open up about Neal after they'd gotten in the cab, and was filling the space between them with his own venom.

"Paranoid conspiracy theorists with a penchant for quoting classical philosophers?"

John nodded. "Oh, yes. The 'intellectual elite'. The bloody existential thinkers of the modern age. They're all the bleeding same, aren't they? They sit in their fucking ivory towers and glare down at everyone below them. I've had my fill of the bloody sanctimonious pricks. You join up, you spend the greater part of your adult life amidst a hail of gunfire, living and dying for people you'll never meet, and you come home to arseholes like that." He clenched his fists and his jaw. "Looking at me like I'm a trained dog on a choke chain." His hand lifted to clutch at his dog tags, the fingers wrapping around the metal oblongs until his knuckles started to pale.

"You're not." Sherlock said. Sometimes, he knew, the best tactic was to state the obvious with unflinching certainty. It gave people something solid to grab onto.

"I know I'm bloody well not!" John snapped. "But people like that, they look at you with this smug sort of pity and they don't even bother trying to hide it! They're just so certain that once you put on a uniform you lose the ability to think. You're just some hapless machine carrying out orders, like you've given up your self for a pair of boots."

"He seemed scared of you. I didn't notice any pity."

"It was there. It helps them cope with the paranoia that you'll snap at any moment and produce a bloody AK-47 from your arse and go spare on a shopping mall."

Sherlock snorted. "Now there's an image."

John chuckled. "Yeah, guess so."

Sherlock paused a moment. Then, "What were you and Agent Burke planning?"

John perked up at that, and his face split into a grin. "Oh, that! He said he'll see about pulling some strings to get me into the FBI's firing range. I mean, obviously there'll be some restrictions but he reckons he can get me some time with the handguns, maybe even try my hand at something bigger."

"You're giddy." Sherlock accused.

"Yes. Yes I am. Sherlock, you do realise it's been over a year now since I've been able to handle a firearm without worrying I'll be arrested? I don't like hiding it, and here..." He sighed. "I mean, say what you like, America knows how to treat a bloke with an itchy trigger finger."

"Yes, lethal injection for the most part, I believe."

"Wanker."

"Moron."

They were grinning at each other, now. Their individual pains were, if not forgotten, at least less important now. It was times like this, and they were surprisingly numerous, when Sherlock wondered how he'd managed before John. He never bothered to contemplate life after John, because there wouldn't be one. It was that simple. John, and John alone, was forever.

"Film? Back at the suite?" John asked after they'd been silent a while.

"Which?"

John considered. "I could go for something stupid and funny."

"Hot Fuzz?" Sherlock asked.

John beamed. "Like you can read minds, mate."

Sherlock shrugged. "You're excited about the gun range. Hot Fuzz is the only one of the few comedic films we can agree on that promienently features the use of firearms. Not a difficult leap."

"Yes, yes. You're brilliant and godlike. I vote pizza."

Sherlock made a face. "Must we?"

"Peter was telling me about New York pizza. Second to none, apparently. It'd be a cultural insult if we didn't."

"I don't get a say, do I?"

"Nope."

"Fine."

They chatted amiably the rest of the way to the hotel. Not once did they mention Neal or the military.


	7. Chapter 7

**We Were Never Forever  
Chapter Seven**

**New York City: April 18, 2011**

The van stunk. There was nothing else you could say about it. It stunk. It reeked. It oozed with the odors of sweat, bad breath and ancient take-out orders. There was congealed soy sauce on one corner of the shallow ledge holding all the monitors and recievers. Sherlock thought he was going to be sick.

"This is brilliant!" John beamed, gazing around the van's interior as though it were an exibit at the Smithsonian or something. "We're in the Van. The actual bloody Van. Sherlock this is amazing!"

"No it's not." Sherlock said, trying not to breathe through his nose.

"Oh, come on. FBI stake-out. Us in the Van. Operative in the field. How can you not be loving this?"

Sherlock peered at him, his head swimming with the fumes. "Have you met me?"

John rolled his eyes. "Right, sorry. Don't know what I was thinking."

The door at the rear of the vehicle jerked open, and Peter appeared, hefting himself up onto the manky carpeting.

"Okay, fellas. Dry run." He said, maneuvering himself into the seat beside Sherlock's. "Practice makes perfect, so we're gonna test how well you and Neal work in the field."

"I am perfectly capable of separating my personal opinions from my professional endeavours, Agent Burke." Sherlock sniped.

"Sherlock, he's a Special Agent, at least try to lie convincingly." John teased. Sherlock glared at him.

Peter smirked. "And that, Dr. Watson, is exactly why you're here. I'm thinking Myles had the right idea sending the matched set."

"Mycroft." Sherlock muttered. "My brother's name is Mycroft. Not Myles."

Peter shrugged. "Whatever." He passed a pair of exceedingly large and out-dated headphones to Sherlock, who sneered at them before gingerly slipping them over his ears. They were tight, noise-canceling, and they pinched his hair. He frowned, and glanced at John, who flashed him a concerned look. Sherlock shook his head and took a deep breath. He removed one of the cups, the one surrounding his left ear, closest to John, and sound returned. He relaxed.

"I'll be in the club with Neal, monitoring his progress. We'll all be in radio contact, I'll relay your objective once I'm inside, then it's up to you and Neal to achieve it. You'll have one hour. Good luck." He hopped down from the van and closed the door behind him. The stink returned.

"All right?" John asked quietly as soon as they were alone.

Sherlock nodded and smiled tightly. Sensory deprivation, while rewarding in a controlled environment, always made him feel uncomfortable if not on his terms.

John's hand slid carefully over Sherlock's, his fingers settling into the spaces between Sherlock's own. Sherlock didn't pull away, but he didn't turn his hand over to lace their fingers together either. He let John comfort him, and forced himself not to think back on all the times Neal had done the same.

"_Moon river, wider than a mile_" Oh, speak of the devil.

"That was a cheap shot." Sherlock grumbled.

"_Oh come on, Sherlock. You've gotta admit it's better than 'testing, 1 2 3_'."

"Most things would be."

"_Besides, I remember you crying at-_"

"Shut up, Neal!" Sherlock snapped.

John furrowed his brow and flipped the switch that would pipe the radio signal through the speakers as well as Sherlock's headphones.

"_What was that? Dr. Watson listening in?_"

"Yes. I'd be very careful if I were you. He's a lethal man."

"_He would be._"

"_Alright, boys, can we please at least attempt to keep this professional?_" Peter's voice chimed in. "_Stand by for mission objective._"

"_Peter, I love it when you take charge like that._" Neal teased.

"_Shut it, Neal. I still haven't told June what happened to her orchids._"

John and Sherlock exchanged a look, and both of them had to fight back snorts of laughter. John waggled his finger sternly and mouthed "not your housekeeper", and Sherlock had to slap a hand over his mouth to hold back the giggling.

"_Fine, fine. What do we have to do here?_"

Sherlock slid the left cup back over his ear, shutting out all sound save for the radio transmission. Time to focus.

"_Okay boys, this is a double-blind. We have a number of agents in the club, each one of them has something concealed on their person. They don't know which of them you're looking for, you don't know which of them has what you want. Neal can spot an undercover agent on his own, it'll be up to Sherlock to determine which undercover agent is holding your objective._"

"Straightforward, if a bit dull." John swatted Sherlock's arm lightly. He ignored it.

"_Okay, what's our objective?_"

"_You're looking for a coin. A Liberty Silver Dollar. Find the agent with the coin in less than an hour, and you're ready to take on Hale come Thursday._"

"_Okay._" Said Neal. "_Ready on the floor._"

"Ready in the van." Sherlock added. John beamed at him. Sherlock smiled tightly in return.

"_I'm going in._" Neal said, and there was a soft clicking sound, then the diluted sounds of laughter, conversation and clinking glass filtered through the headphones. Sherlock focused his attention on the sounds he could make out, and waited.

"_Got one. Male, mid forties, suit's a bit too big for him. Full head of hair, but he's going gray and he knows it. Wait...isn't that Jenks?_"

"_Neal, focus. And now I definitely regret letting you crash the office Christmas party._"

"_Yep. Definitely Jenks. Good man with a lawn dart, that guy._"

"_Neal!_"

"_Sorry, sorry. I'll behave._"

"That'll be a first." Sherlock snorted. John slapped him again, this time it hurt. He rubbed his arm and glowered at his flatmate. "Take me to him."

"_Can do._" Neal was silent for a moment, then his voice returned, jovial and dripping with charm. "_Jenks, right? From the Christmas party? You hooked up with that blonde from IT, right?_"

"_Right! Neal Caffrey, man. Good to see you again._"

It went downhill from there. Sherlock listened dutifully, but really it was the worst kind of busywork. He tried to pass the time by counting all the pop culture references, highlighting the ones he didn't recognise, but that was a bit uncomfortable in the circumstances so instead he turned his attention to trying to place the man's origin by his accent, something remarkably more difficult to do in America, where the accent tends toward homogenization in urban centers.

Then, yes, he had it. "Ask him for the time. Pay attention to his watch."

Neal followed Sherlock's lead, then parted with Agent Jenks graciously.

"_You were right. Concealed flash drive in his digital watch. Nice work._"

"How?" John demanded. Sherlock couldn't hear him, but John always made the same scrunched up, disbelieving face when he asked that question. Sherlock removed the left headphone.

"He's in his forties, generally an age range not entirely at home with modern technology. His speech patterns support that, he's less conservative with his words, not someone accustomed to condensing his thoughts to fit a restrictive medium like texting or twitter. A man like that doesn't harp on technology unless he's been recently confronted with it, but Jenks couldn't shut up about it. He kept rubbing his arm or his wrist, I heard the movement of his sleeve. So, technology, very modern, something on his arm, a watch then, but not just a watch, something sophisticated, something like...this:" He rapidly navigated his phone until he found what he was looking for, then showed it to John. It was an advertisement for the kind of digital watch Neal had described on a technology website.

"_You did all that just by listening to him?_" Peter demanded.

"He does that." John said, leaning over to talk into Sherlock's microphone.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "We still haven't found the coin." He pointed out. "Can we please get on with it?

* * *

**Cambridge: February 16, 2000**

"Are you ready for this?" Neal asked. "There's still time to change your mind." He stroked the backs of his fingers along Sherlock's cheek, leaving tingling heat trails in his wake. Sherlock grabbed Neal's hand in his own and pressed a kiss to Neal's palm.

"I'm ready." He said, swallowing past a lump in his throat. "I'm- I want this, Neal. I think it's time."

Neal let out a long breath. "Christ, Sherlock. You just dive right in, don't you?"

Sherlock nodded. "Please, Neal. You're important to me. This, between us, this is important." He swallowed again. "But if you're not up for it-"

"No, no, I'm ready. I can handle it, trust me." He pulled Sherlock into a brief, chaste kiss, then ran his fingers through Sherlock's curls. Sherlock closed his eyes and tilted his head into the touch.

"Okay." Said Neal. "Let's do it."

Sherlock blinked, and shot a glance at the door. He felt so comfortable, so safe surrounded by the acids, bases, compounds and glassware of the chemistry lab. Just beyond that door, though, lie something else entirely. Something daunting.

He squared his shoulders and, resolute, laced the fingers of his right hand through those of Neal's left. Neal's grip was warm and steady.

"You're my..." Sherlock stumbled a bit over the word, but he managed it. "Boyfriend." He felt a flutter in his stomach, something bright and giddy. "I won't keep you a secret."

Neal just smiled and put a hand on the door handle. A twist, a push, and they stepped outside together, hand in hand.

::

* * *

**New York City: April 18, 2011**

"_Do you have to flirt with _every_ woman you encounter?_" Sherlock's voice demanded through the earpiece.

"Flirting works. You know that perfectly well." He muttered, keeping his voice low and his lip movements minimal while casually concealing his face from the club at large.

"_Certainly works for you._" Sherlock sniped. Neal was about to say something back when there was a muffled voice on the other end, clearly Dr. Watson's, and while Neal couldn't make out much of what he said, he thought he picked up on the words "Molly", "morgue" and "Tesco's girl".

"_That's completely different._" Sherlock snapped, presumably at John. Again the voice, and then, "_Because I don't enjoy it._"

"_Liar._" And that one he heard clearly, in John's deceptively light voice. Neal snorted.

"_Eyes on the prize, boys._" Peter admonished. Neal nodded slightly and squared his shoulders. Back to work. So far they'd found a ruby, two more flash drives, a hibiscus blossom (for some reason), a photograph from a closed case, but no coin.

"Next one." He said. "Female, late thirties, doesn't usually wear heels. Knock-out in an indigo dress."

"_Just take me to her, Casanova._"

"You flatter me, Locks." He said. It came easily, comfortably, and he didn't realise he'd said it until it was far, far too late.

There was silence through the earpiece, a tense silence.

"Sherlock, I..."

"_Shut up. Just go lie through your teeth for a bit. It is what you're best at._"

Neal fought the urge to hang his head. Instead, he stood erect, back straight, and strode off toward the next undercover agent to do what he did best.

::

* * *

**Cambridge: February 23, 2000**

"Are you okay?" Neal asked, threading his fingers through Sherlock's hair. The young man shuddered slightly and gripped Neal tighter. He was partially on top of Neal, his face buried in Neal's collar bone and his right hand clutching Neal's shoulder. They were both naked, concealed only by the sheets.

"I'm...yes. I, I think so." His voice was thin, a little strained. "Did I, I mean, was I... okay?"

Neal laughed, and Sherlock tensed. "No, no, Sherlock. You were wonderful. Incredible."

"You're lying."

"And you're learning. You're very good at that."

Sherlock sighed and turned his face more fully to Neal's chest, so Neal couldn't see his eyes. "Sometimes I think you must hate me." He confessed.

"Hate you? Why?"

Sherlock shrugged. "Because I'm taking so long. It's been almost a month and I'm..." he turned his head back and pressed his lips together into a thin line. "I'm still a virgin."

Neal huffed a laugh and looked up at the ceiling. "I'm fine, Sherlock. This is enough."

"What, a mutual wank and some cuddling? That's all it takes to satisfy you?" He sounded a bit snide, probably more insulting than he'd intended. Neal was still getting used to the occasional glimpses of a far more callous Sherlock, sarcastic and impatient and rude. He was growing to like it, which was typical. He'd always gone for the feisty girls, the ones with more than their share of bite. Why should this man be any different?

"For now? Yes. This is new territory for me, too." He paused, and something clicked in his head. "It's...not enough for you, is it?"

Sherlock sighed deeply and rolled onto his back. "I don't know." He groaned. "Sometimes it's too much. Other times... dear God it's like I'm _starving_. When we were- I mean, just now, I thought I'd fall apart. But then it all sort of... fades and I feel, I don't know. Empty, I guess."

Neal shifted so he was laying on his side and propped himself up with an elbow, resting his head on his hand. "What do you want, Sherlock?"

Sherlock met his eyes and was quiet for a moment, then he said, "I want it to be over. All of this doubting and all the little panics. I just want to skip it and get to the part where it comes naturally." He closed his eyes briefly. "I want to fall into bed with you. I'm tired of all the planning, the negotiations, always having to tell you I'm okay and...and when I'm not."

Neal sighed. "Do you want to just...do it? Get it over with?"

Sherlock's eyes widened and he shrunk in on himself a little. Neal felt like a complete idiot, and he slapped his hand over his face as Sherlock turned away from him.

"I hate this." Sherlock whispered. "Why am I so scared?"

"Well... it's your body. It takes a lot to share it with someone."

"It's just a mass of chemicals, Neal, it's not like it's _important_."

"Your brain is a mass of chemicals. Are you going to tell me that's not important?"

Sherlock shifted round and glared at him. Neal smiled and toyed with one of the dark curls of Sherlock's fringe. "It's yours. Your body. No one else's. That makes it important. It isn't mine to take, it's yours to give."

"Are you scared?" Sherlock asked, barely above a whisper.

Neal nodded. "That's how I know it matters. You're not just a fling, Locks. You're a big deal."

Sherlock furrowed his brow and narrowed his eyes. "Locks?"

Neal shrugged and chuckled. "You hate 'Shar'. And I love your hair. It seemed to fit."

Sherlock rested his head on the pillow. "Locks." He said to himself, seeming to taste the name, to test the feel of it on his tongue. He shrugged. "I don't loathe it."

Neal smiled. "Midnight locks and skin like pearls. You're a fairy tale, Sherlock."

Sherlock groaned and swatted him. "Stop that!" He chided, but he was smiling. "You really can't turn that stupid inner poet off, can you?"

"Nope." Neal confirmed.

"Christ, you'll turn me into a girl if you keep that up."

"Wouldn't dream of it." Neal smirked, pulling Sherlock into his arms and pressing him close, naked skin to naked skin. "Locks."

::

* * *

**New York City: April 18, 2011**

"That's it." Sherlock said, his voice far more clipped than necessary, even to his own ears. "He's got the coin."

"_Interesting theory, Walt. Never would've thought of it myself._" Neal said smoothely.

"Yes I'm bloody sure." Sherlock snapped. "He has the coin. Prove me right and we can get the hell out of here."

"Sherlock?" John asked. He'd been wearing his concerned face for the past half hour and it was driving Sherlock mad. He hated being coddled. He hated especially when John was the one trying to coddle him.

"I'm fine, John." Sherlock snarled.

Neal stammered almost imperceptibly over the connection, but persisted in asking Walter Fallard if he had change for a hundred.

"_No, sorry man._" Walter's voice said, faint over the radio but still audible.

"_Oh, well. Thanks anyway buddy. Hey, I'll see you around, okay?_" They parted like old friends, and when Neal was alone he said, "_Yep. Liberty Silver Dollar. You got him. How's our time?_"

"Eight minutes to spare. Adequate. Good bye, Neal."

"_Sherlock, wait I'm-_" But Sherlock didn't bother to listen to the rest, he simply removed the headphones and flicked the switch to terminate the transmission.

"Sherlock." John scolded.

"Shut up."

John sighed and rubbed his forehead. "You have got to talk to him." He said.

"I'd rather not. Therefore, I won't." Sherlock replied. He carefully moved to the door, taking pains not to bash his head against the low ceiling. He shoved against the door and all but collapsed out into open, breathable air.

John stayed in the van, glaring at the counter and massaging his brow. Sometimes John didn't follow, and those were the times when Sherlock needed to be alone.

"Great job, Holmes." Peter called, bounding toward him from the club. "That was a lot less painful than I thought it would be."

Sherlock shrugged. "I take it we're cleared for Hale's meeting, then?"

Peter winced. "Well..."

"What?"

"It's Neal. He's...he can get a little...well, I guess you know. I think you distract him."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Neal loves being distracted. It's what he lives for."

Peter frowned, then glanced around. He looked through the open van doors to John, and something silent and unfathomable seemed to pass between them. John gave a little nod, and it made Sherlock's heart lurch painfully, the phantom smell of chlorine in his nostrils and the phantom weight of a Browning in his hand. He felt strangely angry and annoyed that John could connect that way with someone who wasn't him, that someone else could understand him the way Sherlock could.

He didn't have time to dwell on it, though, because in the next instant Peter's hand was on his arm and he was being dragged bodily away from the van. Peter pulled him forcefully down the sidewalk in into the meager shelter of one of Manhattan's solitary standing trees, planted in a strategically positioned bit of ground amongst all the cement.

"Look," said Peter. "I know...Neal made some mistakes in the past. He's got his demons, just like everyone. But, he's different, okay? I know him. You were together for two years, I chased him for three. We've been working together for two years now, and I can tell you he's not the man he was."

"Neither am I."

"Yeah, he told me."

Sherlock froze, and he stared at Peter, trying to see beneath his calm demeanor. He couldn't see anything, either because Peter Burke was exceptionally good at concealing his motives, or because there really was nothing more to see.

"What did he tell you?"

"Neal tells me a lot of things, only half of which I understand. The other half I generally wish I didn't understand. But I know this: Neal doesn't do half-assed relationships. When he loves someone, he loves them with all he's got. I've seen it. I've seen what he goes through when things go bad."

"Kate." Sherlock said, before he could stop himself.

"He's still hurting, Mr. Holmes. He's still mourning her. Please, if any part of you still gives a damn about him, please don't hurt him more than he is already."

Sherlock crossed his arms over his chest and leaned against the tree. He couldn't bring himself to look Peter in the eye.

"Talk to him. Just talk. You've got two days left before we go after Hale. Just...just deal with whatever it is you two need to deal with, okay?"

"Why do you care so much?" Sherlock demanded.

Peter smiled. "Because Neal Caffrey is probably my best friend, next to my wife. And I love the smug bastard. You should understand. You've got John," he nodded to the van. "Neal's got me. What would John do in my place?"

Sherlock couldn't help but smirk. "It would probably involve his fists."

Peter snorted. "Yeah, well, I'm a bit too official to get away with that. Besides, I'm sure John would kill me if I laid a hand on you."

"True."

"Think about it, okay? There's no point dragging the past with you."

"I'll think about it." Sherlock said, and he was surprised to find that he meant it.

"Thank you. Now if you'll excuse me, I have to go make sure he doesn't get sloshed while he mopes over you."

Sherlock couldn't tell if Peter was joking, so he didn't smile. Instead he watched Peter stride off toward the club and made his way back to the van, where John was waiting.


End file.
